


Symbiotic Doesn't Mean Perfect

by originalblue



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Gun Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:57:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2751932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originalblue/pseuds/originalblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never wanted to be this, but at least she's here too.<br/>The Earth is terrible and wonderful, and he has no idea what he's doing, but it's not so awful when she's carrying half of the burden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Kill me,” Atom's gasping, and Bellamy can't do it, he can't take the knife and kill this kid. It doesn't matter if he kissed Octavia, he's just a kid.

“Bellamy, please,” Atom's pleading, but Bellamy can't do it.

He can see the kind of incredible pain Atom must be in, realizes that the kid will be dead by morning anyways, but here and now, he's alive.

He actually pulls out his knife, turns it over in his hands. He wanted to be a leader, he remembers. He wanted to tell people what to do, after living under other people's rules for so long.

 _This is what it means to be a leader,_ he thinks, but he can't do it.

Atom's begging him, and he still can't.

There's a sound behind him, and he turns, and it's Clarke. Normally he would have something to say, anything, but he doesn't have enough anger in him right now to deal with her the way he normally would.

“I heard screams,” she says, looking scared, and Bellamy wishes he could just go back to yesterday, when they were arguing, when no one was dead.

“Charlotte found him,” he says, unable to take his eyes from Atom's blistered face. His eyes are burned white and blind, his lips torn from biting them between screams. “I sent her back to camp.”

She looks at him, waiting for him to say more, but he shakes his head. His fingers hurt where they're pressed into the hilt of his knife. He should have just done it. He's a leader. He shouldn't let him suffer like this.

Clarke looks Atom over, eyes sharp and mouth pressed thin. She meets Bellamy's eyes again, and shakes her head, and whatever shred of hope he'd had is crushed.

The worst part is, he knows he's staring at her, wide eyed, as she brushes Atom's hair off his forehead. “Okay,” she says, voice broken, and leans over him. “I'm gonna help you, all right?” she says, and without even looking at Bellamy, she takes the knife.

He can't turn away.

She hums deep in her throat, a tune he'd heard as a child, something his mother sang while she sewed, and he can't look away from her sad smile.

She thrusts the knife into Atom's neck, her humming never faltering, and pulls it out, fingers smoothing his curls one more time as he sighs away his last breath.

He can't say anything. Can't say thank you (can you thank someone for killing someone else?), can't ask her how she did it. She did it. She did it when he couldn't, and he doesn't know what that means. But he can't stop seeing her face, hard and sad and ready to cry, as she gave Atom what Bellamy should've.

\-----

Bellamy's screaming, and Clarke's screaming, and they're leaning over the cliff, yelling Charlotte's name, and Bellamy can't see through the rage that's in his stomach and in his throat because he came down here for a fresh start but there's still death down here, closer and warmer than it ever was on the Ark, and before he knows what he's doing, he's falling on Murphy.

His hands are bloody, raw, and Murphy's face is breaking under them, and he never wants to stop, because maybe if he breaks Murphy, it'll stop him from falling apart at the look in Charlotte's eyes as she cried and stepped off a cliff in a strange world.

“Bellamy,” Clarke's saying, and he realizes it wasn't the first time. “Bellamy, stop! You'll kill him!”

He wants to ignore her, but there are hands yanking him back, back to the night, flickering in black and orange, and he lets himself be shoved back to his feet.

“Get off me,” he yells, trying to tear away from them. “He deserves to die.” He's panting, staring, because Murphy is still alive and he shouldn't be, and he is going to fucking change that if it's the last thing he-

“No!” Clarke yells, pushing closer to him, until he's forced to stare down at her. “We don't decide who lives and dies, not down here.”

He inhales sharply through his nose. “So help me god,” he grinds out, “if you say the people have a right to decide-”

“No, I was wrong before, okay?” she bursts, “You were right. Sometimes it's dangerous to tell people the truth.” She takes a ragged breath. “But if we're gonna survive down here, we can't just live by whatever the hell we want.” His words repeated back feel like a slap in the face. “We need rules,” she says, and all his old resentments towards the Ark council come rushing back.

“And who makes those rules, huh? You?” he half snarls the words, eyes wild, daring her to say yes.

But she surprises him, her voice pleading. “For now, _we_ make the rules. Okay?”

And he's staring at her, because she looks like she's about to snap, and she's right, she's right, and he needs to stop and think.

It's hard, so hard, to breathe past the anger in his throat, but he tries. “So, what, then? We just take him back and pretend like it never happened?” He'll kill Murphy himself before that happens.

But Clarke's shaking her head vehemently. “No!” Her eyes flick from his face to Murphy's to the darkness of the woods around them. “We banish him,” she says, and he's furious, because he knows he can't do it, he can't kill Murphy, but she gave Atom what he needed, and he needs to trust her now. If they're going to do this, if they're going to lead together, he needs to trust that she'll do what's right.

Bellamy strides forward, hauling Murphy up roughly. “Get up,” he says, voice hard.

Clarke's beside him in an instant. “Bellamy, stop!”

He ignores her for the moment. “If I ever catch you near camp, we'll be back here,” he says, and he sees the rush of fear in Murphy's eyes as he looks out at the cliff. “Understand?” He releases him with a shove, looking back at the thugs Murphy's brought with him. “As for the four of you – you can come back and follow me, or go off with him to die. Your choice.”

He stalks back towards camp, barely registering that Clarke is beside him. His hands are dripping Murphy's blood, but from where he's standing, it looks a lot like Charlotte's and Wells'.

She says nothing to him as they walk back, followed by the four.

\-----

The flares are up. They streak across the sky, shining red, the first hope they've had in a long time.

Bellamy can still feel the sting of Clarke's hand on his face, but it's nothing in the face of this. He prays that they're in time. He hates this, hates knowing that he might be the reason so many will die. He hates that Clarke looks at him like he should be better, like he shouldn't be afraid. She'll never understand that he's always been afraid, so afraid, that they would take everything from him.

And after they'd taken Octavia, after they'd made him watch his mother gasping her last breath, he'd made a decision. He'd decided he would do anything to get away, to make Octavia safe, and he'd stuck by it. No matter what bullshit she got into, he would help her. He'd already failed them once; he wouldn't let it happen again.

But the flares are bright and real and he lets himself hope for the first time in a long time.

Clarke's voice is hushed next to him. “Can you wish on this kind of shooting star?”

He looks down at her. She's just as dirty and tired as he is, and he knows that she's been doing her damndest to keep them all alive. He's surprised she's heard of that tradition, since shooting stars on the Ark were dangerous.

Apparently he's quiet just a second too long, because she shifts, looking back up at the sky. “Forget it.”

“I wouldn't even know what to wish for,” he says after another moment, and it's the truth. “What about you?”

He sees the way she looks over at Spacewalker and Reyes, and he'd known in the back of his mind that something was going on with them. Reyes notices her look and smiles, and Clarke is forced to return it.

 _Sorry_ , he thinks, and he swallows, because there will never be enough sorry in the world if they don't see those rockets in time.

\-----

Octavia's gone, and he feels a knife of fear twisting in his chest, and Clarke is awake. He gravitates towards her, and to his surprise, she's immediately helping him.

\-----

Octavia's still gone.

He does the only thing he can do. He organizes a search party, because he'll be damned if he's not going to use every available person to find her. Octavia is what's important right now.

Then the meteor shower starts, and it's beautiful until Clarke looks at him, and he can still feel the hollow in his mind when she tells him what it really is.

\-----

The Grounder won't fucking talk. He won't talk, and Bellamy hates this, hates hurting him, but he's a leader, and leaders do what they have to do. It doesn't matter if he doesn't want to. There's a storm raging outside, and Finn is downstairs, dying, and it's Bellamy's job to get this information.

He can't take the look on Clarke's face either, when she begs the Grounder to tell her which of the vials is an antidote. He puts his hand on her shoulder, feeling the defeat in them.

But this Grounder _will not fucking talk_. Whatever the hell Octavia had been on about, saying that the Grounder cared about her, was complete bullshit. Bellamy can see it in his eyes. He's going to die without saying a word, English or otherwise, and Finn is gonna to die with him.

He winds the seatbelt strap around his hand, pushing down the bile in his throat. “Clarke, you don't have to be here for this,” he says, chancing a look at her.

Her face is hard. “I'm not leaving until I get that antidote,” she says, and she watches, as he draws back his arm and hits, and hits.

She flinches, but she doesn't leave, and he's so angry that it came to this, angry that he's torturing someone who might not even have the information they need. But he does it, because for once he and Clarke agree on something, and he knows that one of them has to do this, and he can tell that if he doesn't, she will. And she's a doctor, his partner, and he can't let her do that. He needs everyone to know that Clarke is kind. He needs her to be that for the camp, for him.

He picks up the buckle and lashes out again.

\-----

Clarke's covered in drying blood, eyes red, when she finally leaves the drop ship. She's walking like she doesn't know where she's going, but she stops when she realizes he's standing there.

“We'll get it cleaned up,” he says quietly, looking around them. The rest of the camp is clearing debris, reconstructing tents, hanging things up to dry.

She just shakes her head, walking past him, and he realizes there's something in her hand. “I wish this was our only mess,” she replies, her voice huskier than usual from yelling.

“Clarke,” he says, reaching for her hand and gently taking the jagged screw that he'd used on the Grounder. His fingers brush hers, and she finally turns, looking at him, eyes wide and clear, and he sees something in them that makes him look down for a second for before meeting her gaze again. “Who we are and who we need to be to survive are very different things,” he says, and this time she's the one looking away.

She glances up at the drop ship, and it's like she's woken up a little. “What are we gonna do with him?” she asks, expression angry and expectant. “We can't keep him locked up forever.”

Bellamy meets her eyes squarely. “If we let him go, he'll be back, and not alone next time.”

They stand there for a moment, neither moving, studying each other's reaction, until Clarke looks down, away from his steady gaze.

He sees the weight of it on her, but he doesn't have any sympathy. Not today. “It's not easy being in charge, is it?” he says quietly, and her eyes flash to his.

After a moment, he looks away, giving a barely perceptible nod, not regretting his words, but wishing he hadn't had to see Clarke's face afterwards.

\-----

He wishes he could just yell at Octavia, but he doesn't want to leave her like that again, especially not after what happened last time. She's got a stubborn look in her eye, and he knows he'll never change her mind.

Luckily, Clarke walks in, her face serious. “Bellamy,” she begins, and he cuts her off.

“The answer is still no,” he says, eyes not leaving Octavia's face. “I'm not talking to Jaha.”

He swears she rolls her eyes, even though he's not looking at her. “Hey, relax. That's not why I'm here.”

That makes him turn. “What, then?”

“The Ark found some old records that show a supply depot not too far from here,” she says, and his mind is instantly wide awake.

“What kind of supplies?”

“The kind that might give us a chance to live through winter,” she says, and it's the best news he's had all week. “I'm gonna go check it out,” she continues. “I could use backup.”

He looks at her, surprised. “Why are you asking me?” He might trust her, and go to her first in an emergency, but he has no illusions about them being best friends.

She looks up to meet his eyes, and he can see that she's tired, her face set. “Well, because right now I don't feel like being around anyone I actually _like_.”

He can hear it in her voice, the unspoken _the last guy I liked is making out with his girlfriend right now_. He understands.

And it's a little earlier than he'd hoped, but he can use this. He had wanted to tell Octavia goodbye for real, to ask her if she wanted to come, but he knows he wants her to stay. He wants her safe. And he can't say anything with Clarke right there.

He settles for a sigh. “I'll get my stuff. Meet you in ten.” He gives Octavia a last look, hoping it'll be enough and knowing it won't be.

\-----

The woods are mercifully quiet as they hike. That's something he appreciates about her. She doesn't speak unnecessarily, especially not outside of camp.

His bag of rations and supplies weighs heavy over his shoulder, but the day is bright and cool, and he lets himself relax a little. They're well out of Grounder territory, and he's leaving the camp in good hands. She can do it. Even if she fights him every step of the way, he knows she'll die before letting anything happen to their people.

“You know, the first dropship is gonna come down soon,” she says, and he closes his eyes for a moment, holding in a groan. “Pretty sure you can't avoid Jaha forever,” she adds as they duck under a branch.

His mouth twists into a grimace. “I can try.”

The woods give way to a valley, the remnants of old buildings crumbling around them. They take a moment and stand on the edge of what used to be a wall, looking around. There's water pooled in the bottom of the valley, around what looks like a broken windmill and some white stone columns.

“The depot is supposed to be around here,” she says, glancing at the map. “...somewhere.”

“There's got to be a door,” he replies, scanning the brush around them.

Clarke's eyes follow him, and she obviously wants to say something more. “Maybe he'll be lenient,” she finally bursts, and he turns back to her, face dark.

“Look, I _shot_ the man, Clarke,” he says, because he refuses to let himself hope for something he knows will never be true. “He's not just gonna forgive and forget.”

She nods after a moment, and he can see in her face that she understands.

He breathes out hard. It's not her fault he's frustrated. “Let's just split up, cover more ground. Stay within shouting distance.” He stomps off, pulling his ax out of his belt and hacking at some weeds.

He just wants this to be over. Octavia will be safe. Clarke will lead the camp. They'll have the supplies to get through winter and to help whoever manages to get down to Earth. And he'll find a way to make it, far away, away from Jaha and the judgment of the Ark.

\-----

 _Guns,_ he thinks, _there are guns._ He's almost dizzy with the rush. “This changes everything,” he says, the possibilities opening up in front of him. “No more running from spears.”

He looks up at her, catching the surprise on her face. “Ready to be a badass, Clarke?” he asks, grinning.

She sighs. “Look, I'm not gonna fight you on bringing guns back to camp,” she says turning to face him. “I know we need them, but don't expect me to like it.” The gun in her hands is still dripping grease, and she inexpertly cocks it.

This is it. He can see it now; the camp strong and well-fed, the wall higher, actual houses. He feels a stab when he realizes he won't be there to see it.

He looks over the gun in his hands, checking it for signs of damage. “We're lucky the rifles were packed in grease. The fact that they survived means we're not sitting ducks anymore.” He glances at Clarke, seeing the resignation in her face. “You _need_ to learn how to do this,” he says, watching her clumsily line it up with her left shoulder. He hadn't realized before that she was left-handed.

She ducks her head down too far, leaning towards the scope. “So I just hold it on my shoulder?” She looks a little strange, a little awkward, and he moves forward to correct her position.

“Yeah, just a little higher now, that end,” he says, pressing one hand to her back and the other to her elbow. “Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat, suddenly aware of how close they are, and how warm she is. “Uh, that's good. Uh. Watch and learn.” He steps away, picking up his own gun and lining up the shot.

He pulls the trigger once. There's nothing but a click. She looks at him, eyebrows raised, lips quirked, and he ignores it. He leans back, checks the clip, and loads a new shell. He takes a deep breath and huffs it out, then tries again. Click.

“Still watching,” Clarke says, and he feels a rush of something like embarrassment.

“My bullets are duds,” he informs her, lowering the gun. “Try yours.”

She brings the gun up, her form already better than the first time, and fires. It only hits the outer edge of the X, but Bellamy remembers how bad his first shots were. She'll pick it up soon enough.

“That was amazing,” she says, and he tries to hold back a grin. Holy hell, the doctor princess likes guns.

She turns to him, eyes wide and alight. “Am I horrible for feeling that?” she asks, and he shakes his head, feeling his grin spreading. The camp will be okay with her. He knows it.

“Try again,” he says, nodding towards the target.

“No,” she says instantly, and he looks at her. “We shouldn't waste the ammunition,” she explains.

The smile slides off his face. “You need to practice.” He needs her to be able to shoot, and shoot well, if he expects her to lead the camp. He knows that the Hundred, or what's left of them anyways, respect strength and knowledge. If she can fight, and prove that she knows what she's doing, they'll support her.

But she doesn't know that, and she seems determined to make things difficult. “No,” she repeats, and the look in her eyes is the same kind of stubborn he sees in Octavia's. “We _need_ to talk about how we're gonna keep guns around camp; where are we gonna keep them? And who has access?” She stops for a moment, thinking. “You left Miller in charge of the Grounder; you must trust him.”

He nods. “You should keep him close. The others listen to him.” He grimaces at his slip of the tongue, hoping she doesn't notice, but it's fucking Clarke, and she notices everything.

“ _I_ should keep him close?” she says, and there's already confusion in her voice. “Bellamy, what's going on? You've been acting weird all day.” Her eyes flicker down to the bag at his feet and then back up. “All the rations you took. You're gonna run.” Her face goes hard and outraged. “That's why you agreed to come with me. You were gonna load up on supplies and just disappear.”

He can feel his temper rising; this was _not_ how he'd planned for this to go. “I don't have a choice. The Ark will be here soon.” He almost spits the words. If only the Ark had stayed in the fucking sky, none of this would have happened.

“So you're just gonna leave Octavia?” Clarke says, and those are the words he's been dreading, because it reminds him that he's leaving her, again.

He looks down. “Octavia hates me. She'll be fine.”

“You don't know-” she says, voice full of that stupid hope that he knows is never going to come true.

“I shot the chancellor,” he says roughly, looking her in the eye, and she goes quiet. “They're gonna kill me, Clarke.”

He sighs. “Best-case scenario, they lock me up with the Grounder for the rest of my life, and there's no way in hell I'm giving Jaha the satisfaction.” He wants to be out of this bunker, away from the concrete and metal walls that reminded him so much of the Ark.

“Keep practicing. I need some air,” he says, and leaves, because her eyes are staring holes in him, and he doesn't want to think about what her disapproval means.

\-----

 _Murderer_ , they're shouting, and he's running, stumbling, because he never wanted this, never wanted any of it, but he did it because he had to-

But that doesn't mean he's not a murderer, and he can feel them behind him, reaching through him, and he's gasping, and he doesn't stop running, because that's all he can do now is run-

\-----

There's a gun pointed at him, and it's not a dream, it's real, because it's Dax holding the trigger, and he barely knows the guy, and Dax's fingers are rough from work and cold, and Bellamy could never dream up that kind of detail.

The gun cocks, and Dax looks at him, and says, “Nothing personal.” He pulls the trigger, but it clicks. A dud.

Dazed, Bellamy reaches back, pulling the pistol out of the back of his pants, aiming, and then it's gone, there's no gun, he's holding air-

He's frozen, staring at his hand, because he's not sure what's real anymore, but he's pretty sure this is actually happening, and he's not sure if he wants to die, but he's tired of fighting. He feels the cold press of wet leaves against his back and legs, and he realizes that he's still out in the woods.

There's a click from behind Dax, and they both look. It's Clarke, holding a gun like she's used it a thousand times, pointing it at Dax's chest. “Put it down, Dax,” she says in her fiercest 'I will break you' voice. She uses that voice a lot when she talks to Bellamy.

Bellamy looks around. His hand is empty. He's in the forest. It's dark, darker than anything had ever been on the Ark. This is real. This is real.

Dax ignores it. “Should've stayed down there, Clarke.” The business end of his rifle is trained on her. “I tried not to kill you, but here you are, and Shumway said no witnesses.”

Clarke's face twists in surprise, and she glances at Bellamy. “What is he talking about?”

This, Bellamy knows. He struggles to his elbows. “Shumway set it up. He gave me the gun to shoot the chancellor.” He remembers the strange rush of fear and pride that Shumway would trust him with it. He also remembers the overwhelming sickness in his stomach once he'd realized that no matter what he did, he was still a stupid pawn in a stupid game where no one won except the council.

“Walk away now,” Dax says evenly, “and I won't kill you.”

“Put it down,” she says, sighting through her scope, and Bellamy's heart jumps, because no matter how sure she looks, she's only ever fired a gun once.

Dax shrugs. “Your choice.”

Clarke pulls the trigger and is answered by a click.

Dax fires and gunshots ring out, jolting Bellamy from his stupor. Clarke has ducked behind a tree, but Dax is still shooting, the shells clattering against the ground.

“No!” Bellamy snarls, throwing himself at Dax, dragging the taller boy down. He gets in one good punch before Dax's elbow comes up to meet his face, knocking him backwards with a groan.

He can hear Clarke struggling with her gun, but he's focused on Dax, who draws back a hard fist and hits him once, twice, using his free hand to grope for his gun in the dirt. Bellamy grabs his arm, trying to stop him, but the minute Dax gets a grip on the rifle, he brings it around and into Bellamy's face with a savage crack that leaves him seeing stars.

There's a pressure at his throat that Bellamy sees is the gun, pressing down, cutting off his air, and he glimpses something shining out of the corner of his eye.

“Get the hell off him!” comes Clarke's voice as she charges forward, and Bellamy will have to remember to tell her that she should be quieter the next time she sneaks up on someone, because Dax nails her in the stomach with the butt of the rifle, and she falls back with a heavy thud, the wind knocked out of her.

But Dax has had to lean back onto his haunches to hit Clarke, and it's all the opening Bellamy needs, as he grabs the dud rifle shell and jams it into Dax's neck, just where he watched Clarke do it.

Dax stares at him as he dies, choking, blood welling in his throat and lungs, and there's a rushing noise in the back of Bellamy's head as he watches it happen.

He killed him. He killed someone with his bare hands. Not just a number up in space, not just a gun and a shocked look, but his own two hands.

Then he blinks, and he realizes that this is real, and he stumbles over Dax's body, towards Clarke. She's curled up on her side, but she's still moving, and gasping, that's good. She's alive, and not too badly hurt from the sound of it.

They're both panting, dragging in breath, he realizes, as he puts a hand on her knee for balance, letting himself lean down against the base of the tree.

“You're okay,” she gets out between heaving gasps, and he's surprised by the relief in her voice, and immediately overcome because he doesn't deserve her worry.

“No, I'm not,” he replies, voice breaking. He stares out at the trees, seeing them all again, all the people he's killed. “My mother,” he says, realizing that he's shaking, “If she knew what I've done-” He looks down, feeling Clarke's eyes on him. “Who I am-” he swallows. “She raised me to be better. To be good.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke says, voice soft and sad, but he keeps talking.

“And all I do is hurt people,” he says, breathing in hard through his nose, snot and blood and god knows what else. “I'm a monster.” He hates this, hates what he's become. He hates what he's done, and what he knows he'll do to keep them all safe. For Octavia, for Clarke and Jasper and Monty, hell, even for Spacewalker on a good day. He'll do it all for the Hundred. It doesn't matter anymore. His mother would have hated the person he's become.

“Hey,” Clarke says, shifting and looking him in the eyes, even though he knows it must be painful. “You _saved_ my life today.” She's still breathing hard, and he hopes she didn't break anything.

She doesn't look away. “You may be a total ass half the time,” she says, and he almost laughs, his ribs protesting, and that is so confusing to him, because he shouldn't be able to laugh at a time like this. They're half dead, hours away from camp, and one of their own tried to murder them, but he can still laugh.

She hesitates, and he looks at her. She's leaned in close, so she can meet his gaze more evenly. “But – I need you,” she finishes, and he doesn't know what to say to that, because no one needs him. He's a murderer and a traitor, and his mother's dead, and Octavia's got her Grounder boyfriend to look after her. No one needs him. Except Clarke doesn't say things she doesn't mean, and she's looking at him with nothing but the truth in her eyes, and he feels his heart hammering in his chest, not just from the fight.

“We all need you,” she goes on, still staring at him, _believing_ in him. “None of us would've survived this place if it wasn't for you.”

He looks away, telling himself he's not disappointed, because why should he be? She said they needed him, they all need him, and that's what he wants, right? He wants the Hundred to need him. He'd made himself unexpendable from the minute the ship took off, made himself king of a bunch of delinquent kids, because if they needed him, then he could stay.

But he doesn't have the right to say that anymore, not after what he's done, and he doesn't have the right to feel that fist of hope in his chest whenever she looks at him like that.

She's still not done, though.“You want forgiveness? Fine, I'll give it to you. You're forgiven, okay?” she says, voice trembling, and he gives her a look, swallowing, because it's not that simple.

“But you can't run, Bellamy,” she says, shaking her head, and he looks away again, unable to meet her eyes. “You have to come back with me. You have to face it.”

He's bleeding and sore, heart still thudding in his chest, and he's pretty sure he's going to have some dark purple bruises in the morning, but he's still Bellamy Blake. “Like you faced your mom?” he says, and it comes out more harshly than he'd intended.

She draws back a little, suddenly looking anywhere but his face. There's something that sounds like it might have been the beginning of a laugh, but she stops it before it starts. “You're right,” she says, and that, more than anything, is a surprise. “I don't want to face my mom. I don't want to face any of it.”

She pauses, and then there's a new note in her voice, a note that makes him look up. “All I think about every day is how we're gonna keep everyone alive.” Her face is open and scared, and a little pleading. “But we don't have a choice,” she whispers, and he knows, _knows,_ that he's going back to camp, because he can't fucking leave her to do this alone, not when he's felt that same paralyzing terror.

He snorts again, feeling blood and mucus in the back of his throat. “Jaha will kill me when he comes down,” he says with a shrug, grimacing.

Clarke's face is nothing but determination and hope, and for the moment, he lets himself believe in it too. “We'll figure something out,” she says, and he huffs a laugh, wishing he had her confidence.

He rolls his head and leans back onto the rough bark, staring up at the sky. “Can we figure it out later?” he says, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of everything that's happened.

Wincing, she does the same, relaxing once she's next to him. “Whenever you're ready.”

They sit there for a long time, staring up at the trees and the stars, up at the inky blackness they were both born in.

\-----

He's shaking as they sit down, but she's looking at him, and she's not backing away, and he can't leave now. The monitor is on. Jaha knows he's here.

Clarke glances at him, and he knows that he looks as stressed as he feels. He knows he's gripping the edge of the chair so hard that his fingers are probably white.

“Mr. Blake,” Jaha says as they put on the headsets. His voice is like a blow to the stomach, but Bellamy forces himself to stay facing forward. “I've wanted to talk to you for some time now.”

He's steeling himself to speak, but Clarke puts a hand on his knee, stopping him, and he looks at her.

“Before you do, I'd like to say something,” she says, and there's a hint of steel in her voice, the steel she's gained from leading. She's calm, but she's also Clarke, and she doesn't back down. “When you sent us down here, you sent us to die,” she says, and it's not a question. Jaha looks away, a confirmation, and Clarke ignores it. “But,” she continues, “miraculously – most of us are still alive.” There's a slight smile on her face as she speaks.

“In large part, that is because of him,” she says, and he looks at her as she tilts her head his way. “Because of Bellamy.” She meets his gaze and nods, and he knows she means it; he's glad she's talking because he's more choked up than he'll ever admit.

“He's one of us,” she says, and Bellamy swallows, his throat working, because he's always been separate, protecting Octavia, and he's a murderer and he's done some awful things, but Clarke says he's one of them, and he's never had anyone but his mom standing up for him. “And he deserves to be pardoned of his crimes just like the rest of us,” she finishes, and he shouldn't feel so happy, but Clarke fucking Griffin just said that he deserves to be pardoned, when not even his guard friends had stood up for him at his hearing.

Jaha's face and voice are distorted by the signal, but his words are clear. “Clarke, I appreciate your point of view, but it's not that simple.”

“It is,” Bellamy says suddenly, because he'll be damned if he's going to let anyone lock him or his sister up again. “If you want to know who on the Ark wants you dead.”

For a long moment, Jaha simply stares at him, and Bellamy stares back, remembering the jolt as he'd pulled the trigger, remembering the surprise on Jaha's face as he fell backwards, blood already pooling from the wound.

Then Jaha looks down and away, as though considering, and Bellamy's heart is in his throat. He trades a look with Clarke, whose face is grim with worry.

Jaha seems to reach a decision, leaning forward. “Bellamy Blake,” he says, and Bellamy can't breathe, “you're pardoned for your crimes.”

Bellamy looks down to hide his smile, breathing out in a rush, so happy for something he thought he'd never have. He looks at Clarke, who smiles back, and not for the first time, Bellamy is glad he listened to her.

“Now,” Jaha says, voice hard and intent, “tell me who gave you the gun.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

The fires cast the camp in a warm orange light, intensifying the drunken flush on the Hundreds' cheeks. Bellamy leans back, watching with a smile as Clarke walks up, her face relaxed.

“Hey,” she says, without preamble. “The comms are still dead. They cut out during the pageant.”

He shrugs, looking out at the laughing kids. “Best Unity Day ever.”

She steps a little closer and gives him a look. “Do you really think now is a good time to be having a party?” she says, voice soft. “I mean, the Grounder is out there.”

“Grounders,” he corrects. “By now, he's made it home.”

He sees the grimace in Clark's face. “He's probably putting together a lynch mob.”

“Relax,” he says with a grin. “I got security covered.” He'd double checked with the guards, making sure they knew _exactly_ what would happen if they drank on duty tonight. He'd promised them each a shift off next week in return. “Why don't you go get a drink? You look like you could use one.”

She sighs, shifting on her feet. “I could use _more_ than one.” He can hear the tiredness in her voice, and he wonders if she's still hurting from the fight with Dax. Getting hit with that rifle must have hurt. He knows it definitely hurt his face and throat, and she'd been nailed in the ribs hard enough to knock her over.

“Then _have_ more than one,” he replies with an easy smile. For once there's nothing to fight over, and it's nice. He wants more time like this, more time when there's good news instead of bad. “Clarke, the Exodus ship carrying your mother comes down here in two days. After that, the party's over.” He looks at the fires, and the kids who are finally happy, finally relaxed, after everything that's happened. “Have some fun while you still can. You deserve it.” He means it. Everything he's seen today has just cemented his belief that Clarke's the only person he would trust with the camp if something happened. But for now they're partners, sharing this burden and this gift, and he's happy to have her on his side.

She smiles a little, considering it, then turns back to him. “Yeah,” she says, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Okay.” She takes a few steps back towards the party, then looks back. “So do you, by the way,” she says, looking at him around the curtain of her hair, and he grins.

“I'll have my fun when the Grounders come,” he promises, and she nods, still smiling.

“All right,” she replies, walking back down to the others with a spring in her step.

Bellamy smiles at the cold night air and takes a bite of his apple. “Unity Day,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief.

\-----

Then later she comes and gets him and tells him what Finn did, and he's so mad that he can hardly speak, because this was a good night, this was a time to relax, for both of them, for all of them, and fucking Spacewalker had to fuck it all up.

Even Clarke had had a drink or three, the camp was cheerful and a little tipsy, and fucking Spacewalker had decided this was a good time to broker a meeting that he didn't have the authority to propose.

And now fucking Clarke is going to actually go through with the meeting, and he's beginning to doubt his earlier belief that she's got common sense.

“Because you figure that impaling people on spears is code for 'let's be friends'? Have you lost your damn mind?” he says, voice low and harsh. He doesn't want anyone overhearing this.

“I think it might be worth a shot,” she says, and fuck he hates when she talks like that, like everyone is as reasonable as she would be in their situation. “I mean, we _do_ have to live with these people.”

“They'll probably gut you, string you up as a warning,” he says, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.

She meets his gaze steadily. “Well, that's why I'm here. I need you to follow us, be our backup.”

She came to _him_ for help, he realizes, and there's a rush of something in his chest that he refuses to acknowledge. “Does Finn know about this?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Finn doesn't need to know,” she says, and right there, his belief in her common sense is returned, because she doesn't fully trust Spacewalker.

“And Bellamy,” she says, eyes not leaving his face. “Bring guns.”

\-----

He's crouched with Jasper and Raven on the bank of the river, and he can see Clarke talking to the Grounder princess. It's a shitty vantage point with almost no cover, but they're making do. If they'd had more time, they could have set up somewhere better, but stupid fucking Finn had to make a midnight deal with a guy who stabbed him.

Things go south when Jasper spots the archers in the trees, and then everything is wrong, there's gunfire and he's ignoring the arrows falling around him. He sees the Grounder princess reach for her weapon, and takes the shot, clipping her shoulder and taking her down. Clarke hadn't even realized the woman was going for a knife, and that's why Bellamy's her backup, because he looks for knives where she doesn't.

Clarke's eyes meet his, far apart as they are, and he's already reloading, ready to cover the three on the bridge as they run. Finn pulls Clarke out of the way of an arrow, and Bellamy pushes down a swell of irritation, grabbing Jasper and Raven once he knows the bridge is clear.

\-----

He should be angrier after everything that's happened, but he's kind of savagely satisfied that she sided with him against Spacewalker. She'd given that idiot her _shut the fuck up, Finn_ , look every time he opened his mouth, and Bellamy had had no problem echoing it. He's starting to wonder how those two had ever been together, even if it was only a few weeks ago. Clarke is the girl who watched her father float, who put the knife in Atom, who helped him get his head out of his ass and do his job. And Finn is just the moron who wasted a month of oxygen on a ship that needed every single breath of air.

They look back towards camp as Finn and Raven stalk away, the trees swallowing their forms.

“Like I said,” Bellamy mutters, “best Unity Day ever.”

They both glance up at a hot rippling noise that sweeps through the forest, and she follows his gaze towards the bright fires of a reentry.

Bellamy smiles. “The Exodus ship? Your mom's early.” Her expression matches his, and he suddenly wonders what it'll be like to meet Abby Griffin, the woman who helped raise his partner.

But Clarke's look of awe is fading, replaced by something much more worrying. “Wait,” she says, eyes never leaving the arc of light following the ship. “Too fast. No parachute?”

She stares at its trajectory, face growing serious and scared. “Something's wrong.”

Then the ship crashes, and the explosion makes the trees shiver around them, the force of the wreckage throwing up a huge plume of smoke and flame.

Bellamy sees Clarke sway, and her mouth opens and closes in a choking noise, and she falls to her knees, still staring at the light of the ship, her face crumpling with shock and pain.

Bellamy looks down at her for a moment, at the deep, sucking sobs that she doesn't even seem to realize are coming from her, and kneels, his own ears still ringing, his mind still blank. He doesn't say anything, just picks her up numbly, arms around her back and under her knees, and starts to walk back to camp.

She's crying now, and shaking, her mouth pressed open and hot and wet to the side of his neck. Her hands clutch at his jacket and shirt, her nails a little too sharp for comfort, but he doesn't say anything, just presses her close to him. She's too light, he realizes. She's a big girl, and she needs to eat more, and sleep more. He should make sure she does that.

“She was-” Clarke tries to speak and chokes, and she pulls back, a string of saliva hanging from the corner of her mouth. She doesn't even try to wipe it away. “I didn't say I loved her,” she says brokenly, and she starts crying all over again, and Bellamy wishes he could do something to help, but he knows, he knows there's nothing he can say or do that will make this right.

“I want her,” she sobs, and he shuts his eyes, slowing for a moment.

“I know,” he says, pulling her closer, letting her grasping arm wind around his neck. She has anchored herself to him, and he lets her, knowing that her fingers will leave bruises tomorrow. It's okay. He wished he'd had someone there to hold when they'd floated his mother. He holds her as hard as he can without hurting her, pressing her close, staring down at the ground as he begins to walk again.

\-----

He doesn't say anything the next morning, just looks up at her. She's standing on the edge of the crater, staring at the wreckage.

“Clarke shouldn't be out here,” Spacewalker says, and Bellamy agrees silently.

She's just looking, not speaking, not crying. She'd cried for so long last night that Bellamy had wondered if she'd ever stop.

But she had. He'd walked into her tent and put her gently on her bed, and she'd unlocked her arms from around his neck, and pulled her blanket over her head. He'd taken that as a sign that she wanted to be alone and gone out to organize the search party for the next morning.

She'd been awake before dawn, dry-eyed and blank-faced, and he'd known that he wouldn't able to keep her away, so he'd let her come.

She needs closure. She needs to see it.

Bellamy coughs, adjusting the way his rifle strap digs into his shoulder.

He hopes this helps in whatever way Clarke obviously wants it to. She can't be a walking corpse if she's going to help him lead the camp. It sounds cold in his head, but it's the truth. He needs her. And he knows that if the situation were reversed, she'd expect the same.

He looks away when he realizes she's crying, but he takes it as a good sign. Her face isn't the same kind of broken it was last night. It's sad, and regretful, but she doesn't look like she's falling apart anymore.

He can't believe she's so quick to recover, but that's Clarke. Always taking three steps where others take one.

\-----

The day started out shit and it's only gotten worse from there.

Fucking Grounders. Fucking Ark. And now there's John fucking Murphy, looking like something that got spat out by a radioactive bear.

Around noon, Bellamy stops bothering to hide his frustration, especially since that stupid fuck Murphy is back in the camp. Everyone's angry. Everyone wants to know why Bellamy hasn't dragged him out to the graveyard and killed him. Everyone wants to see Murphy hurt for what he's done.

But that's not an option, not right now.

Clarke is kneeling before Murphy, who looks, if possible, even worse than when they brought him in. He's got blood splattered over his mouth and nose and chin, and it's on the floor, too, seeping thickly into the metal grates.

She turns as she hears him approach, and she holds up a hand. “Stay back, Bellamy,” she says, and his eyes go wide, because holy shit, she's bleeding from her _eyes_ , and he has no fucking clue how to deal with something like that. It's smeared over her cheekbones, making her look more gaunt than usual, and he'd never admit that it's kind of terrifying.

“Did he do something to you?” he asks, voice harsh, expression grim, because he will fucking kill Murphy right now if he's laid so much as a fucking _finger_ on Clarke. Today, of all the fucking days. His fists are clenched, and he can feel a muscle in his cheek jumping, and he wants so much to just grab Murphy by the collar of that stupid jacket with the red shoulder and throw him off of that cliff, Charlotte's cliff.

But he can't do that because he's a leader now, he's got a bunch of punk kids depending on him to be reasonable, and the only person whose opinion he'd really respect is looking at him, _trusting_ him, not to kill this sorry son of a bitch.

 _Biological warfare_ , Clarke says, like it was to be expected, like she'd maybe considered the possibility before.

So he leaves when she tells him to, he goes out to deal with the problem, because these kids believe in him, and he's going to do everything he can to make sure they all survive whatever the fuck this new thing is.

He's unreasonably angry, barely resisting the urge to punch something, because she's bleeding from her fucking eyes and coughing up blood, and most of the camp is right behind her. They're both leaders, but she's the doctor and the peacekeeper. He fights and yells and makes sure everyone does their job, but he has no fucking clue what he's supposed to do about this.

This is a problem he can't hurt, something invisible and vicious that he knows is going to grab their world by the throat and gut it.

\-----

His worst nightmares come true when they tell him that Octavia touched Murphy.

He pokes his head into her tent, ordering her to the dropship, trying to hide the shaking in his hands because he has no fucking idea what he'll do if he loses her.

His nostrils flare, jaw tensing under a bunched up rag, as Clarke examines her, but she's not showing symptoms, and that's good, he has to believe that's good.

Clarke tells him she'll keep Octavia with the others who are asymptomatic, and he wants to thank her, clap her on the shoulder, _something,_ but that would mean touching her, and he can't get sick too. If one of them dies, if both of them die, he knows that the whole camp will die with them.

\-----

There's nothing else he can do for now. He tries to keep calm, keep the camp calm, and to an extent, it works. His voice is a constant for these kids, barking orders, telling them what they need to do to be safe. But there is no safety from this.

If they all die, it's not on him. He knows it, but it won't stop pressing into the back of his mouth and lungs, a weight that will never leave.

Usually Clarke's there, taking some of the burden, knocking her shoulder into his, giving him looks that say _Take a deep fucking breath, Bellamy, we have to do this._ He can take it if she's there, even if she's usually glaring and rolling her eyes at his words.

But now everyone's looking to him, and he doesn't have answers.

He swallows hard, and looks up to the dropship. Clarke's standing on the steps, face grey and eyes sunken. She looks like shit. It scares him. “Got enough food in there? Water?” he asks finally. She's already looking worse than she had ten minutes ago, and he doesn't want her to die, especially not if something simple will help.

She nods and sighs, and he feels her weariness in his bones. “Some medicine would be nice,” she says, voice rough but deadpan.

He looks down as he feels his mouth pulling into a smile, and he hates it, hates that she can make him smile even when their lives are going to shit yet again. He doesn't want this to be the end of whatever the hell they've been doing. He doesn't want to go back to how it was before.

“I'll see what I can do,” he replies, trying in vain to keep his smile down. He's just taken a step away when he realizes what he's forgotten.

He turns back after a moment, annoyed with himself, annoyed that he's forgotten for one single moment that his sister is in the dropship too. “Octavia,” he calls, keeping his voice level, hoping she can hear it on the third floor. “You all right in there?”

There's no answer, and for a split second his heart stops.

Then Clarke's voice breaks through to him. “Bellamy, wait.” She meets his eyes. “She's not here. I sent her to see Lincoln.”

He sees the look on Clarke's face, and all his fear turns to anger, anger that he was standing here smiling at her when she put his _sister_ , the one person he needs to protect with every goddamn breath, in danger.

“Look,” she says, in that voice that she uses when she's tired of arguing, when she's made a decision that she knows is right. “If there's a cure, he has it. I didn't tell you because I knew you wouldn't let her go.”

He lets a piece of the choking anger go, but it's still shoved up under his ribs, hot and tight, because he knows that she's right, somewhere underneath it all. She wouldn't have done this if there was another option. She's just as dedicated to the safety of the camp as he is.

But his sister is still out there, with some fucking Grounder.

He feels his mouth tightening, and he looks up at her. “If anything happens to her, you and me are gonna have problems.” That's the worst threat he can make right now, because if something happens to Octavia, he has no idea what he'll do. He doesn't know what he _can_ do, because Clarke is Clarke, and without her, he's just some guy ordering people around. He can't even let himself think about the possibility that Clarke will die before Octavia returns. He turns around, shoulders so stiff he can feel the muscles creaking, and ignores her when she calls his name. “Out of my way,” he snarls, and that's when the day reaches fucking rock bottom.

The boy in front of him turns around, weeping blood, and Bellamy will never be used to seeing that.

“Dude, your eyes,” someone says, and suddenly everyone's shouting.

“Nobody touch him!” Bellamy orders. “Get to the dropship now.”

Someone else is leaning over, blood on their nose and mouth, and Bellamy hears someone ask them if they're okay, before they cough and throw up, and there's blood everywhere, and people are screaming, shoving, guns raised, trying to get away from the infected.

Spacewalker steps forward, face serious, as he tells people to put down their guns, but it does no good, and Bellamy is feeling the beginnings of panic in his chest when three gunshots ring out.

Everyone falls silent, looking up at the dropship, up at Clarke.

She's looking weaker by the second, but she's got a rifle propped on her hip, and she's walking slowly, purposefully. “This is exactly what the grounders want,” she says, voice hardly more than a croak. “Don't you see that? They don't have to kill us if we kill each other first.”

One of the boys raises his gun, fury painting his face. “They won't have to kill us if we all catch the virus. Get back in the damn dropship,” he snarls, aiming at Clarke, and that's the moment Bellamy decides he's had enough.

He takes the moment, reaches across, yanking the rifle back, breaking the boy's nose, ignoring the boy's cry as he stumbles back. Good. Let the kid deal with a broken nose for a few weeks. That'll teach him to point a fucking gun at one of his leaders, sick or not. It doesn't matter how pissed Bellamy is at Clarke, no one fucking points a gun at her.

Rifle firmly in his hands, he turns back to Clarke. “Not to state the obvious, but your quarantine isn't working.”

He thinks he sees a touch of a smile on her face before her eyes are flickering, glazed, and then she's falling, and he can't move.

He watches as Spacewalker catches her. He stares for a moment. She's alive, as evidenced by the way she tells Spacewalker to put her down, but Bellamy knows that this sickness kills hard and bloody, and he can't run this place without her.

They need that cure.

“There is no cure,” Octavia says, and he feels his lungs squeeze, “but the Grounders don't use the sickness to kill.” He's so glad she's back, that she's safe, but she's brought the worst possible news.

He shifts his clenched fingers over the barrel of the gun. “Really? Tell that to them,” he says, gesturing towards the blood-spattered bodies they've laid out next to the ship. “I warned you about seeing that Grounder again,” he adds, keeping his voice hard.

She fixes him with a look he knows well, the look that says _fuck you, Bellamy, and the horse you rode in on_. “Yeah?” she says, eyes flashing. “Well, I have a warning for you, too. The grounders are coming.” She looks at the crowd around them. “And they're attacking at first light.” She walks past Bellamy, towards Spacewalker. “Come on,” she says to them. “I'll help you get Clarke into the dropship.”

\-----

Bellamy glares at Murphy's offer of water, making sure his disgust is evident. “Get the hell away from me,” he snaps.

Murphy has the fucking gall to look offended. “Bellamy, you're sick, okay? I'm just trying to help.” He pushes the cup towards Bellamy again. “Here.”

Bellamy shoves the up away without hesitation. “When I get better, if you're still here-” he begins, but a familiar hand falls on Murphy's shoulder.

“Hey, I got this one,” Clarke says, flashing him something close to a smile, and Murphy hands over the cup, muttering an affirmative as she takes his seat.

“Here,” she says, her hand on Bellamy's back as she presses the cup into his hands. This time he drinks, looking her over as she settles closer to him.

“You feeling better?” he asks, noting the slight color to her skin. She already looks better than she had half an hour ago.

“Yeah,” she says, drawing her knees up to her chest.

“That's good.” They might actually survive this. “You seen Octavia?” Hopefully they all live long enough that he can chew Clarke out for letting Octavia go see that Grounder.

Clarke almost smiles. “She was up all night helping people. Murphy gave her a break.”

Bellamy laughs humorlessly. “Don't tell me you trust him now.”

She meets his eyes. “Trust? No. I do believe in second chances, though.”

He looks away. He does know. He knows that Clarke believes in everyone, and he also knows that someday it's gonna fuck her over if he isn't there to stop it. Her intrinsic trust of people has been tempered by their time on Earth, but it's still there, this weird hopefulness that annoys and buoys him, the one constant in their time here.

“It's almost dawn,” he says, seeing the grey light that's beginning to seep through the open door of the dropship. “Better get everyone inside. If we lock the doors, maybe the grounders will think we're not home.”

“Not everyone is sick,” she says, frowning.

“Sick is better than dead.”

She nods, suddenly understanding. “You don't think Finn and Jasper are gonna pull it off.”

He gives her a look. “Do you?”

She stares for a moment, thinking, then sighs. “I'll get everyone inside.”

\-----

The bomb goes off as they're ordering people in, and everyone stops. The cloud is huge and grey, a mushroom of death in the sky above the forest.

Bellamy stares, open-mouthed. “They did it,” he says, and he still can't really believe it.

It's terrifying in a way that nothing up until now has been, not the guns, not the ship crashing, not the giant river snake thing, because _they_ did this. They built and used a bomb on a bombed out world, and there is no going back.

Clarke's voice comes, low and raspy. “'I am become death, destroyer of worlds.'”

Bellamy just looks at her slowly, really looks at her, and sees that her red-rimmed eyes are staring up into the sky. She's got blood on her hands and clothes and face, and she's still got healing bruises, and she's just said something terrible, but she's still beautiful, and it's a little jarring.

She catches his eye and starts to explain. “It's Oppenheimer, the man who built the first-”

“I know who Oppenheimer is,” he interrupts, with something like a smirk on his face but not quite.

They look at each other for a long moment, before turning back to the smoke and ash pluming into the sky, shoulders pressed together in silence.


	3. Chapter 3

Finn and Clarke and some kid are gone, and Bellamy stops himself from fidgeting, because he's not worried, he's _not_ , he's sure everything is fine.

But by sunrise the next day, he has to admit that something is wrong.

He gives orders gruffly, anger and fear hardening him, because Clarke would never do this. She'd never up and leave with Finn, especially not with some over-eager kid along for the ride.

There are two other options; either the Grounders have them, or they're dead. The bleakest part of Bellamy knows that the second is more likely.

\-----

He ignores the way his heart pounds as Finn and Clarke dart into camp, his head ringing with _Clarke, Clarke_. She's alive and he's not alone, she's here, she didn't leave.

But she's different. There's blood on her hands and a tension in her that he hasn't seen before, and there's a little less light in her face.

Then there's no time, because something worse than Grounders is coming, and he wants to scream at her, but she looks so scared, so scared of what she's seen, and she's already so broken and he cannot break her.

They're the last to walk out of the camp they made, side by side, and he wishes it wasn't like this.

He looks to her when they're preparing for war, and she gives him the fight he's been waiting for, hands it to him on a silver platter, and it's nothing like what he wanted.

\-----

The fighting is terrible; he knows because he's had his face bashed in several times over now. There's screaming all around him, and the Hundred are dropping like flies, and he never wanted any of this.

He glimpses white blonde hair between punches, and somehow that's enough, even as he's being slammed aside by a Grounder's weapon.

She's closing the dropship door, and he's glad, glad because at least some of their people will be safe, because he knows that Clarke will never ever stop fighting for them.

The blast goes off as they're halfway down one of the tunnels, and he shoves Finn down and forward, out of the way, and they can feel the blast of heat overhead, making them sweat and sting and black out.

\-----

Finn is gone, and Bellamy's so deep into the forest that he wonders if he'll ever get out. He knows these woods well, but they're fickle, hungry, and he knows he won't survive alone for long.

\-----

He tracks Finn and stumbles over Monroe and Sterling, but they're skittish and scared, just scared kids, and they hesitate, and soon he's joined Finn in captivity.

He was stupid to expect them to throw themselves into danger when they'd just escaped a bloodbath. This is why he needs Clarke. She knows the Hundred in a way he doesn't, knows when they'll break and run, knows when they need to take time for themselves. He also knows that if she'd been at his side, they would have won. They would have freed Finn and killed the Grounder, and she would have done what needed to be done.

The Grounder hauls Finn and Bellamy through the woods like they're nothing. It gets to be too much; Bellamy can't keep up, and the Grounder decides he's expendable, and he's wishing that he'd gotten to hug Octavia one last time and apologize to Clarke for leaving her to do this alone.

There's a rustle behind them, and Monroe and Sterling jump out, seemingly determined to redeem themselves, but it turns out to be unnecessary.

Shots ring through the trees, and there's blood on everything, and there's a sizable hole in the Grounder's head.

Marcus Kane steps out of the woods with a gun, and Bellamy is terrified that he's dreaming again.

But no. This is real.

There's a familiar woman with dark blonde hair and worried eyes, and he realizes that it's Abby Griffin, Clarke's mom, and it's okay, it'll all be okay, because now he can bring back the kind of help that the Hundred really need. He can also bring Clarke her mother, something she thought she'd never have again, something he would give anything for. He can do this for her, because she closed the dropship. She did it. He doesn't know if he could have.

It's over, they're in the woods, they're alive, and at least Octavia and Clarke and the Hundred are safe, at least they're okay.

Whatever else happens, they're okay.

\-----

She's not okay. They're not okay.

The dropship and the wasteland that used to be the camp are empty, so empty, and there are canisters dripping sticky orange foam whose smell makes him woozy, and he can't breathe because someone took their people, and someone took Clarke, and every plan they'd made to keep their people safe is gone, broken.

And fucking Murphy, _Murphy_ is alive, when so many of their own aren't, and he _will_ fucking kill him this time, because Clarke's not there to stop him-

The taser shock to his back breaks his anger, bows him over, freezing his lungs for one long moment.

“You are not animals,” Kane says, standing over him, stupid fucking Marcus Kane, who should have died on the Ark, but the universe is cruel, and somehow Kane had made it down when hundreds of others hadn't.

“There are rules,” he continues. “Laws.”

Bellamy wants to spit in his face, because _fuck him_ , fuck his rules, he and Clarke have kept their people alive and fed and protected them as best they could, and no fucking Ark rules have helped them a single goddamn bit in all their time on the ground.

The pasty older man seems intent on somehow staring Bellamy into submission, futile as the attempt may be. “You are not in control here anymore,” he says, and Bellamy wishes he could laugh, because _that_ is for goddamn sure.

He's never been in control, but at least down here he had Clarke, and she'd made him take responsibility, and that's more important to him than control has ever been. He doesn't give a fuck what the Hundred do as long as they're okay, because he stepped up that first day on the ground, and he's coming to realize that he will never be able to step down again. He wonders if Clarke feels the same way, wherever she is. He refuses to believe that she's dead. He tells himself he would know if she were dead, that he would feel it, because she's still holding up half of their burden, and if she weren't there, he'd break.

Raven's alive, and that's the one piece of good news he's had in what feels like weeks. She's not doing so hot, but Clarke's mom thinks she'll be okay, and the Griffin women seem to know their way around a medical table.

Finn's strange about Reyes, all soft eyes and sure hands, and so cold about Clarke, a terrifying determination in his eyes that Bellamy's never seen before. There's less Spacewalker in him now, more of a hunter. He's found something in his love for Clarke, something that's filling him up inside and eating away at what was there before.

But for now, Bellamy has the same goal. Get to the Ark camp, stock up, organize a search, and get their people. Get Clarke.

He goes quietly when it's time to leave, because he needs to save his energy for whatever's coming tomorrow. And something's _always_ coming.

\-----

The next week is hard, even harder when he lets himself consider the possibility that the Hundred could all be dead already.

Whatever bond he thinks he has with Clarke is in his head, he knows. If she's dead, rotting in some Grounder hellhole, he'll never know. But he lets himself hope, because that's what she'd do in his situation, and he doesn't know what he'll do if she's not okay. Clarke is Clarke, and she'll fight until her fingers are bleeding and her shoulders are bent, and if she isn't there to balance him, he doesn't know what he'll do.

He thinks about how she'd look at him, expression wry, saying _Congratulations, Bellamy, you've got an impossible situation. Now grow the fuck up and deal with it._

He swallows down the fear and makes it through somehow, and their group arrives at the Ark camp mostly intact.

Finn's wound as tightly as a spring, snapping at everyone, staring feverishly into the trees, but Bellamy's mostly calm, even when they lock him up.

Their people are out there. He knows they are.

\-----

Raven's screaming fills his head. It echoes in the wreckage of the Ark, a harsh wailing of pain that he prays he'll never know, and his already sizable respect for is now infinite.

He sees the flicker of expression on Murphy's face, and on someone else, he might call it regret.

\-----

“Bring them home,” Clarke's mom says, and Bellamy can't even nod some kind of affirmation.

He's armed, he's back in the woods, back with some of his people, and he has a purpose again. He takes a deep breath and stalks into the trees, shoving Murphy in front of him.

\-----

“Son of a bitch,” Finn says, and his voice makes Bellamy glance away from his scope.

“What is it?” he asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer.

Finn's face is grim, his eyes narrow. “The guy with the one eye,” he says, and Bellamy looks through his scope. “Around his neck.”

Bellamy sees the gold band hanging on the string, but doesn't understand. “What am I looking at?”

Finn's voice is full of hate. “He's got Clarke's watch.”

Just like that, Bellamy feels himself go cold.

“It was her _father's_ ,” Finn adds, and that makes it that much worse.

“She wouldn't give that up without a fight,” Bellamy says, sighting at the Grounders again, because whatever the hell Finn thinks he knows about Clarke, Bellamy's the one she trusts.

But Finn isn't seeing anything except the watch and the Grounder anymore, and he's got that feverish look that makes Bellamy jumpier than usual. “Neither will we.”

\-----

Bellamy is stupidly, selfishly glad when Finn and Murphy leave their ragtag recon team, because he wants nothing to do with either of them. He tries to remind himself that the most important thing is getting all their people home, but he's glad to return to Camp Jaha with the girl they saved, if only to get away from the oppressive atmosphere that Finn's been spewing.

He saw Finn shoot – _execute,_ he knows that's what it really was – the Grounder, over Clarke's dad's wristwatch, and it's all he can see whenever he closes his eyes.

He saw the watch that Clarke treasured, a last sacred memento of her father, wrapped around Finn's wrist as he pulled the trigger point blank against the Grounder's skull. Clarke's watch, passed from the Grounder's neck to Finn's hands, which are now dirtier than Bellamy had ever thought would be possible.

He doesn't let himself think the word – _murderer, murderer_ – but he knows it deep in the pit of his stomach, knows that Clarke would never have done something like that. He knows that Clarke would have been the one to stop it happening, and he also knows that she would never forgive Finn for doing it in her name.

He's trying not to think of her in the past tense, but it's hard, so hard, with all the death and desperation and pain he's seen in the last few days, and all he can think is that there is no more Bellamy and Clarke, no more Hundred, no more future for any of them.

\-----

It's later, and he's almost crying. Octavia's safe, Octavia's here, in his arms, she's here, and she's not okay, but he's not either, and he doesn't know if they'll ever be okay again, but they're together.

He's found the first of his Hundred.

\-----

He hurts everywhere, but that's not exactly unusual these days. He helps the climbing girl – he can't remember her name, he's too tired to do anything but stand up – limp into camp.

Doctor Griffin takes the climbing girl and Monroe to medical when she's done asking questions, and he's glad to hand them off, glad that they're someone else's responsibility for just a minute. He can't take much more of this. He turns to Octavia to say something, but there's nothing to say.

Then there's someone running towards him, and he doesn't realize who it is until she's there, right there, eyes flashing to his face and then past. She hits him with enough force to knock him back a half step, and she's holding him tightly, pressing her face into the bare skin of his neck and shoulder.

She's alive. Clarke. This is Clarke.

After a long minute, he pulls her in hard, breathing in deeply, feeling her hair press against his mouth and face.

 _She's alive_ , he thinks dizzily. _They're all alive. It's okay, it's okay._ He tightens his hold, ignoring the look his sister is giving them.

“Now, there's something I thought I'd never see,” Octavia comments, mouth twisted into the first almost-smile he's seen from her in days, and he feels Clarke's grin against his neck, and he huffs a laugh into her shoulder, finally releasing her.

She's smiling widely, eyes bright, and he's a little confused because he's never had that smile directed at him before, but that doesn't stop him from smiling back. It makes him breathless, because _oh, that's what she looks like when she's happy._ He's seen that look before, he knows he has, but it's still strange, especially under the number of cuts and bruises that mark her face. She looks like she's been through a beating or five, and he wants to know who did it.

Then she turns to Octavia, giving her the tight hug that Bellamy knows his sister has needed.

“I'm glad you're okay,” Octavia murmurs, her fierce grip on Clarke belying her quiet tone.

“You, too,” Clarke says, pulling back and flashing her a smile.

“How many are with you?” Bellamy asks, because he needs to know.

Clarke's face freezes a little, but doesn't shutter, doesn't go blank. “None,” she says, but she's still got a hint of a smile on her face, and there's no way in hell she'd be smiling if their people were all dead.

She looks past him, into the trees, brow crinkling. “Where's Finn?”

He swallows, looking at her, measuring the brightness of her expression. “Looking for you,” he says finally, and he has so much to say to her, about watches and maps and the bunker that will never be the same safe space it once was. But it can wait.

\-----

The fire is built and the woods are quiet, crickets humming around them, and Bellamy decides to keep watch. Clarke and Octavia are asleep, both too exhausted to argue. The trees arch high above them, sheltering them from the worst of the night's cold.

He thinks he could live like this. Just Octavia and Clarke to watch out for, alone in the woods. Only once the Hundred were safe, of course. He could do it. He could get up every morning and bicker with them and hunt with them and work with them, and he could come back every night and keep watch, and it would be alright.

He looks down at Clarke, a little disturbed at how pale she is in the firelight. It makes her bruises and cuts stand out all the more vividly. She's split her lip recently, and one of her eyes was blacked while she was making her escape from Mount Weather.

One day he's going to ask her what really happened up there, what makes her go tight-lipped and cold all over, and he hopes she'll tell him. She's told them the horrors, but she's told them clinically, without stopping to think about it all again. She hasn't said more than a few words about Anya, and Bellamy knows there's more to say.

Her eyelids flutter, almost like she can feel him thinking about her, and she looks up at him. She looks oddly vulnerable like this, still curled close to her pack for warmth, even though he knows she has at last one of the knives he's given her tucked under her makeshift pillow.

Normally he'd be embarrassed to be caught looking, but she hasn't said anything, so he doesn't look away. He gives her the barest hint of a smile, and she returns it. They're together again, and their Hundred are out there, or the fifty or so that are left, anyways.

“Last time I saw you, you were closing the dropship door,” he says, and there's no malice or judgment or hurt in his voice, but she still shifts uncomfortably, looking down and away, and he wonders if she dreams about it the way he does. “Had to be done,” he continues, and she meets his eyes again, sitting up.

“Did you get any sleep?” she asks, and that's just like her, to worry about other people.

“It's okay. I'll sleep when we find Finn.” He swallows. He hasn't told her what happened, and he doesn't want to, because if he tells her, it'll make it real. He always tells Clarke the truth, however awful it may be, and she does the same for him. He can lie to the Hundred, and he can lie to himself, but he can't lie to Clarke.

“You haven't seen him, Clarke,” he says at last. “Losing you, the others, the war – it changed him.”

He draws a deep breath. “He executed the Grounder that drew us the map.” It all flashes in his mind, the crack and the blood and the way Finn hadn't so much as looked sorry. “Pulled the trigger without even blinking, and walked away.”

He'd dreamt about it last night, which is another reason he's still awake. Time on the ground has taught him that his nightmares leave him yelling and gasping, heart hammering, and they can't afford the noise attracting a Grounder's attention.

Clarke's rightfully confused by his words. “That doesn't sound like Finn.” She's not doubting him, just stating what she's thinking.

But she hadn't seen it happen, and Bellamy had. “No, it doesn't.” He blinks hard. “I saw what he was capable of, and still I let him go with Murphy and two automatic rifles.”

Her voice is sure. “I'm sure that had to be done, too.”

He glances down; he doesn't deserve her acceptance. “When we got back to the dropship and no one was there, we assumed it was the Grounders.”

“Of course, you did.” She looks at him, eyes clearer than they've been since before the battle. “You couldn't have known it was the mountain men. No one could have.”

His pulse is thudding in his ears, the terrible fear he's kept down for so long threatening to crash over him. “How long until chocolate cake turns into being hung upside down and drained for their blood?” he asks, voice low.

She meets his gaze again, and he's struck by how much safer he feels with her next to him. “I don't know,” she says, and her mouth is stuck between sad and hopeful, “but we don't have much time.”

He's forgotten how good it feels for her to trust him. He's forgotten what it was like when it was him and Clarke against a new planet. Even on their worst days, all he'd had to do was cross the camp and watch her sew some kid up and pour the nearly-toxic moonshine over the wound. She'd chew the kid out for not paying attention, then send him on his way with strict instructions to keep the area clean. Bellamy had scoffed in the beginning, because their camp was lots of things, but clean was not one of them. Then he'd realized that giving someone a stern talking to was just how Clarke showed she cared. Sometimes he wonders what it means when she yells at him.

He realizes he's staring and looks away, into the hungry glow of the fire. The Hundred are waiting. He needs to find them. “Okay,” he says at last. “First we find Finn, then our people in Mount Weather.”

His sister's voice surprises him. “And Lincoln,” she says fiercely, sitting up, and he won't argue. From what she and Clarke have told him, Lincoln has done everything he can possibly do to keep Octavia and the Hundred safe from the other Grounders.

Octavia gets to her feet, eyes downcast but just as hard as his own. “I think we've slept long enough.”

It only takes them a minute to pack; they're traveling as lightly as possible.

Then they let the forest swallow them again.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Clarke won't stop shaking.

They'd just grabbed Finn and Murphy and run, even when Clarke was weakly battering Bellamy's chest and arms, croaking that she needed to go tend to the wounded. He knows that the Grounders would have killed them all if they'd stayed even a moment longer.

Afterwards, Bellamy had seen the way she stared at the gun in Finn's hands, and he'd quickly wrenched the rifle away, slinging it across his own back. But Finn hadn't cared. He'd been too busy smiling at her. And she hadn't said a word to him the entire time.

Now she walks in silence at Bellamy's side, fingers clenched, staring down at her dirty boots as they make their way back towards Camp Jaha. There's still blood on the watch where it's wrapped around Finn's wrist, and Bellamy can't bring himself to tell her.

He wants to ask if she's alright, but he swallows it down. It's not his place to say anything to her, not now. Not when everyone can hear them.

He glances back, and sees Finn staring at Clarke's rigid back. Bellamy looks away.

“We should set up camp for the night,” Octavia says from behind him, and he's never been so glad to hear her voice. She ignores the palpable tension and grabs Finn by the shoulder, steering him towards the bank of the stream they've been following for the past half hour. “You're with me. Let's get these tents set up.”

Bellamy watches for a moment as Clarke goes to follow, then stops her with a hand on her wrist. “Clarke. We need firewood.” She looks up at him and he gives her arm a light tug. “Come on.”

Finn's head whips around, and he wrenches away from Octavia, eyes narrowing. His shoulders square, and his mouth opens, but then Clarke turns, and she's looking at him too.

“Yeah,” she says to Bellamy, looking down. “Okay.” She swallows and steps back toward the path, away from Finn, and Bellamy follows.

They're quiet for a few minutes as they pick through the underbrush, finding some dry branches and piling them. Clarke reaches up to pick a leaf out of her hair, but her hands are trembling too much, so Bellamy leans in close and does it for her.

“Clarke,” he says, and she looks up at him, and he sees the fear and disgust in her eyes that she's been trying so hard to hide from Finn. “It's okay,” he says, taking her hands. “You can tell me.” He squeezes her fingers gently. He can't do anything else for her, but he can listen.

“He shot them, Bellamy,” she says, taking a seat on a fallen log. Her face is puckered, like she's trying not to cry. “He killed them. For no reason.” He sees her squeeze her eyes shut, biting the inside of her cheek. She's shuddering, and for a moment he wonders if she's going to throw up, but she doesn't.

He sits down heavily beside her, leaning his elbows onto his knees. “He had a reason,” he says quietly. “He thought he was protecting you.”

She throws him a look through wet eyes. “I told him, you know. Before the battle. I told him we were over. I told him that he needed to stop.” She wipes her eyes on the back of her grimy sleeve. “I thought he listened.”

Bellamy tries to smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. “Our Spacewalker's never been the best listener in the world, has he?” No one's used that nickname in a long time, the same way he hasn't called Clarke 'princess.'

She sobs out a laugh, and sniffs, and looks around them. The trees are quiet with twilight, the fungus still only a dim bluish glow from above. “I used to wonder what nighttime looked like down here,” she confides. “I wondered if it all went dark the way it did from space. I used to dream about that one picture from the archives, the one with the swirls and the hills and the golden moon.”

“'The Starry Night,'” he says, just to confirm. He'd loved that painting too. The original was probably destroyed or lost decades ago, but at least a digital copy still exists.

She nods. “I loved the paintings more than anything else on the Ark,” she says, looking down, fingers finally coming to rest on one of her knees. She rubs at a spot of blood and dirt almost absently. “When I was little, my dad would take me down to one of the archive screens and show me famous artists, and then he'd tell me that one day my work would be there too.” She wipes her eyes again. “He was lying. The archives only showed artists from before the wars.”

Bellamy puts a heavy hand over hers, feeling how cold she is. “He loved you,” he whispers, and Clarke nods, rubbing her nose. “I bet he would've found a way to get your stuff in there.”

She laughs, and it's a little broken, but it's better than crying. “Yeah,” she says, and looks back up at him with a smile. “I bet he would have.”

His heart is pounding as he reaches out and smooths a lock of hair out of her face. She stays stock still, eyes wide and red-rimmed from weeping.

He leans forward and presses his lips to hers.

He pulls away quickly, pulse jumping, panic rising in the back of his throat, because he just _kissed Clarke_. “Uh, sorry,” he blurts, because this is the worst possible time for this, and he's never kissed someone without their permission before, and he _just kissed Clarke_.

But she's just staring at him, not hitting him, not moving, and he stares back.

Then her hand creeps to the side of his face, and she angles her head and kisses him, eyes sliding shut. He relaxes a little, bringing gentle hands up to touch her arms. It's slow, so slow, and Bellamy doesn't want it to move faster, doesn't want it to end. Her hand is firm against his jaw, sliding over the unfamiliar stubble, and her lips are warm. He's careful about where her lips are split, not wanting them to start bleeding again. Her free hand comes to rest at the nape of his neck, fingers in his hair, and he sighs into the kiss.

Then they hear someone calling out, and they break apart instantly, jumping to their feet.

It's Murphy, come to help them gather firewood, because he can't stand being around Finn right now. For once, Bellamy knows how he feels.

He steals looks at Clarke while they pick up the wood and haul it back to their campsite, but she stares blankly at the trees the whole way. He forces himself to look away, telling himself that it's okay, it was just a kiss, it doesn't mean anything.

\-----

They don't talk about it again, and Bellamy decides that being his default gruff leader self is the best option. If he's just the leader of the Hundred, not Bellamy Blake, not some dopey kid with a crush, he can do this.

“Okay,” he says, sitting across from her. “Tell me again.”

She smooths the map of Mount Weather against the table, and he's so grateful she's got a mind for stuff like this. He can't believe she managed to escape, let alone with an accurate hand-drawn map.

“It's a labyrinth,” she says, pen tapping a spot on the mountain. “We got to the dam through this tunnel. It's all connected to the mine system.” Her pen moves to an access point on the mountainside. “ _That's_ our way in.”

“Sure,” he says, sourly, “if we can get past the Reapers and the Mountain Men.”

She shoots him a pointed look, and he's glad to see it, because that spark is a little more like the old Clarke. He _needs_ her to be okay. And if they can't manage that, he needs her to be slightly less fucked up than the rest of them. If she can hold it together, then so can he.

But this isn't about him and Clarke being okay. “I swear to God,” he says, anxiety stirring in his chest again, “if your mom doesn't sanction a mission soon, I'm going by myself.”

She meets his eyes. “You won't be by yourself.”

That's Clarke. He'd known deep down that she would come, because Clarke's just like him. But it's still nice to hear her say it.

He gives a slight nod, and her lips quirk, and for a second it's back to them, back to Clarke and Bellamy, partners and leaders.

Then her eyes flicker over his shoulder, and her expression goes strange. He turns to look, and sees Finn walking out of the Ark. He's not handcuffed or restrained the way Bellamy had half-expected him to be.

“Guess the inquisition's over,” he says, but he's not really surprised. The Ark survivors are still ironing out their laws, and for now the Hundred are being treated as special cases. He knows that's the only reason he wasn't executed for attacking Murphy back at the dropship. “How's Finn doing, anyway?” he asks, voice careful.

Clarke looks down. “I haven't talked to him since we got back,” she says, and her voice is thick. “I don't know what to say,” she adds, and her eyes are unfocused. “He just... kept shooting.”

Bellamy's sorry she has to deal with Finn's fuck ups, but he _needs_ to know that she's got her head in the right place. “We're at war, Clarke,” he says, expression grim. “We've all done things.”

Footsteps behind him make Clarke look up, and there's more than a little fear in her expression.

“Hey,” Finn says, face serious, and Bellamy glances between them.

“Hey,” he replies, wondering if he should leave. He doesn't want to make Clarke talk to Finn if she doesn't want to, but he doesn't necessarily want to stick around for whatever's gonna happen next. He sees the look they exchange and takes a deep breath, standing up. “Next round's on me.”

He feels her eyes on his back, but doesn't turn around until he's at the water pump. He glances back as Finn sits down, and sees Clarke shove the map under her arms. He nods to himself, because he knows she's got it under control. She's still the same girl who saved all of their lives one way or another, and her instincts are usually good.

He hasn't let himself think about that kiss, or what it means that she kissed him back, because he's fairly sure he knows. She was crying, and he was convenient, and she wanted to escape for a few minutes.

He tells himself that it's fine, that that's all it was. That's all it needs to be. If he'd given her even a moment that wasn't terrible after that bloodbath, he's happy.

\-----

Clarke's mom turns out to be almost as sensible as she is, after a while. It's taken her some time to adjust to life here, but she's shaping up to be an even better leader on Earth than she was on the Ark.

He thinks he sees Clarke's eyes flicker when they split up, but he tells himself he's seeing things. At least he's with Octavia. He can protect her now. He has his knives, and she has Lincoln's huge sword thing, and she's shown him that she can use it.

Then the fog comes, and it's all they can do to drag two of their idiot guards into an old structure. The third dies screaming before they can shut the door, and Bellamy curses the Ark idiots who think they can survive whatever Earth throws at them. Thankfully, one of the remaining guards hands him a gun, and he feels a thousand percent safer with it in his hands.

They switch on their flashlights and split up, staying low and quiet as they enter one of the larger rooms. It looks a little like the bunker, but bigger, and when Bellamy's light hits something metal, he realizes that it's a building that was used for keeping automobiles when they weren't in use.

It takes them a minute to hear the growling, but they immediately see them, the Reapers, crouched over rotting bodies, and Bellamy doesn't think twice, just fires. The shots echo against the concrete, and their flashlights hurriedly sweep the rest of the room.

There's one more. Bellamy immediately aims, but Octavia stops him. “Don't,” she says loudly, and he pauses, keeping his gun trained on the Reaper. He's waiting for her to explain to him why he shouldn't blast this sick fuck off the face of the planet.

His sister's voice breaks a little as she speaks. “It's Lincoln.”

\-----

 _God_ , he thinks later, staring down at the Reaper that used to be Lincoln. _The things we do._

It's taken them hours to carry him through the woods. They've had to inexpertly bind his wound twice, and every time it looks like he's waking up, Bellamy makes himself knock him out again. He prays the blows don't give him brain damage, but he has no way of telling, not when Lincoln isn't coherent enough to even say if he's in pain.

He needs to find Clarke. He knows that if anyone can help, she can. Her mother might not understand, but Clarke will.

\-----

He spots her in the crowd as it breaks up. She's standing in front of Finn, staring at her mother. He doesn't hesitate, darting between people and grabbing her by the arm.

She jerks around, and the surprise on her face quickly turns to concern. “Hey, where have you _been_?”

“In the dropship,” he replies, not wanting to say more in front of Finn. “You need to come back with me right now.”

“Why, what's happened?” she asks, voice as low and serious as his own.

He hates doing this to her, wrenching her into a new emergency, but he needs her help. “I'll explain on the way. Bring your med kit. Meet me at Raven's gate.” He stalks away without another word, knowing she'll follow.

He tells her everything that's happened as they walk a now familiar path back to the dropship. She's quiet for a long time, but he sees nothing but grim determination on her face.

He doesn't say anything about the last time they were alone in these woods, because he doesn't want to think about kissing her. It's been days, and she hasn't said anything or given him any indication that their whole conversation had even happened. If she wants to forget about it, he will too.

They reach the camp after an hour or so. It's largely untouched, burnt skeletons and ash still littering its grounds. She strides quickly towards the dropship door, not looking left or right, and he follows in silence. Then they're climbing the ladders, and the last time they did this, the camp had been whole, their people safe.

She shoves her kit through the third floor hatch first, pulling herself up a moment after, and he steps up behind her. Octavia's leaning against one of the walls, too exhausted for anything other than a smile.

He'd told Clarke what to expect, but she still stumbles backwards when Lincoln thrashes in his bonds and lets out an unintelligible roar.

He puts out a hand to stop her from backing up. “It's okay,” he says, seeing the fear in her face. “It's okay. He's been restrained.” At his words, Lincoln yells again, struggling against the ties.

Clarke's face is disbelieving as she glances from Octavia to Lincoln to the chains holding Lincoln back. “I can't believe we're back here again,” she whispers.

He knows what she means. Lincoln, strung up on the third floor, Octavia trying to help him, Clarke trying to save someone's life. At least this time Bellamy doesn't have to torture him.

Octavia looks up. One hand is at her temple; she probably has a headache from stress and all of Lincoln's screaming. “Can you help him?” she asks, looking at Clarke with a glimmer of hope.

Clarke's shaking her head, eyes wide. “I don't-” she trails off, staring at Lincoln as he screams again. Octavia just looks exhausted, and he can see why. If someone he loved became this overnight, he'd be just as much of a mess.

Clarke takes a cautious step towards Lincoln, and Bellamy is right behind her, just in case.

“I knew Mount Weather controlled the Reapers.” Her voice is quiet, and Bellamy has to strain to hear her over Lincoln. “I had no idea they were creating them.”

“If they can do that to Lincoln, what are they doing to our friends?” Bellamy hates to voice the thought, but he's terrified, and he doesn't want Clarke anywhere near Lincoln, but she's their only chance at saving him.

\-----

The sun is setting, and they're losing time. They have flashlights, but Bellamy knows that Clarke works best with a steady light source.

Lincoln has shown no signs of calming down, and Bellamy's honestly afraid he's going to die from tearing his muscles against his restraints.

For a moment, it looks like he'll be quiet, his head nodding, arms twitching.

Clarke stares at him, confusion coloring her face. “He's convulsing.”

“S-so what does it mean?” Octavia asks, and he's only heard her stutter like that once before, when they'd been allowed to see each other when their mom was floated. It only happens when she's scared so badly she can't think.

Clarke makes a bewildered noise, and she sees their hasty bandage around his leg. “What happened to his leg?” she asks, and Octavia freezes.

“I shot him,” she says, voice dull, and Clarke stares at her until she looks away.

“Clarke,” Bellamy breaks in, “he's lost a lot of blood.” If they're going to save Lincoln, they need to get started.

She nods, turning back to her patient. He's hanging from the restraints now, instead of flexing against them, but the minute she approaches, he snarls at her, lunging and failing.

Clarke's eyes narrow, and her mouth goes thin. “Can you shine the light on his neck?”

They move their flashlights, and Lincoln ducks his head away with another growl, closing his eyes against the light.

“Needle marks,” she says, and Bellamy can see the puncture wounds.

He shifts his grip on his flashlight. “You think he's been drugged?”

She's half turned to him as she speaks. “Mayb-”

The metal clip holding the restraint on Lincoln's right arm gives out, and he thrashes forward with a yell, grabbing Clarke by the head. Bellamy's already moving, trying to figure out the best way to hold him down, but Octavia's in the way.

She shouts Lincoln's name, trying to pry him off Clarke, but he lashes out, throwing her against a wall. She lets out a cry of pain as she hits the floor, and Bellamy hopes to god she's okay.

He comes in from the left, hitting Lincoln as hard as he can, but the man barely seems to feel the blows. He finally lets go of Clarke, only to grab Bellamy and smash his forehead into Bellamy's face, tossing Clarke aside. Bellamy hears her land with a thud and a groan, but he can't do anything from where he is. He scrambles backwards as Lincoln claws at them, snarling, held back by only the chain around one of his ankles.

Bellamy sees the stun baton lying on the floor and grabs it, jumping to his feet and turning it on just as Lincoln wrenches his final limb free. He rushes forward, bringing his arm around the way they'd taught him so long ago in cadet training, but Lincoln's bigger and has been a fighter a lot longer than he has. He easily slams Bellamy into the floor, knocking the baton out of his hand and raining down heavy-fisted blows.

“No!” Clarke shouts, trying pull Lincoln off, but Lincoln's twice her size, and shoves her away. She lets out a yelp of pain as she falls, and Bellamy is suddenly terrified that it's going to end like this, but Octavia's there, and she slams the pipe into Lincoln's head as hard as she can, collapsing from the effort once he's down.

They're all alive, Bellamy thinks dazedly as they catch their breath, curled up around their injuries. And now they have even less time to do what needs to be done. He catches Clarke's eye and sees new bruises already blooming on her face; doubtless he looks even worse.

He looks her over once, making sure she's not more injured than she's letting on, then lets his head loll back onto the cold floor, staring up.

He hates that she gets hurt so much around him.

\-----

This time they tie Lincoln down instead of stringing him up. Clarke's all business now, tearing away the fabric of his pants around the wound.

“We have to stop the bleeding and get the bullet out,” she says as Bellamy opens the med kit. Lincoln begins to stir and grunts in pain, already shifting. “Hold his leg down,” she orders, and Bellamy rushes to obey.

Octavia tries to give Lincoln water, but he snaps at her fingers, already snarling, and Octavia retreats. Clarke looks even more worried than before.

Bellamy trades a look with her before turning back to his sister.

Octavia refuses to look at either of them. “I'll get some more,” she says, getting to her feet.

Bellamy stops her. “O.” He makes her meet his eyes. “Once the drug is out of his system, he'll be okay.” He's reassuring himself as much as her, because he needs to believe this.

She looks down for a minute, and when she looks back up, her face is carefully blank. “You can't protect me from this one, big brother.” She pushes past him, taking the ladder two rungs at a time.

Her words strike deep, because protecting her is his job, his only fucking job, and he can't even get that right. He shakes his head and crouches next to Lincoln, gripping him tightly as Clarke draws out the bullet and begins to stitch the wound.

She's quiet as she works, eyes feverishly flitting from her patient's face to the wound, and he's sure that Lincoln's pained shrieks aren't helping her concentration. He wonders if he should gag the man, especially after he tried to bite Octavia, but he might choke on it, and then all their hard work and bruises would be for nothing.

He watches Clarke clean the wound as best she can and bandage it, the fresh linen of her med kit a blessing after the rags they used at camp. It's always kind of magical, watching her turn a dying person into a safely treated one. But he can't say that, because it would sound like he thinks about her as some kind of wizard, and he knows she isn't one. He doesn't want to put that kind of pressure on her, especially not now, not with Lincoln's life hanging in the balance.

“Your mom would be proud,” he says instead, hoping she knows how much that means, and she sighs.

“My mom would know how to save him.” She glances up at him, and he looks away, realizing he's been giving her a kind of intense stare.

He's standing to help her clean up when the hatch clangs open. It's Octavia, and there's a Grounder behind her.

Bellamy has his rifle in his hands and cocked before he even knows what he's doing.

Octavia steps in front of the huge man, hands up, pleading. “Bellamy, don't. He's Lincoln's friend, and their healer.”

But Bellamy can't just put the gun down, because every Grounder he's seen in the past week has tried to kill or capture him, and that's his sister standing right there in front of the danger.

A sound makes them all look down; it's Lincoln, twitching, convulsing, a white liquid frothing from the corner of his mouth. Clarke leans over him, pushing her hair out of her face. “He's seizing again,” she says, and Octavia stares at Bellamy beseechingly.

He nods towards Lincoln and slowly lowers the gun, watching with guarded eyes as the tall Grounder steps past him. The healer kneels carefully, and lays out a thick roll of vials similar to the ones Lincoln had carried.

Clarke stares as he removes one, expression clouded. “What is that?”

The healer says nothing, but Lincoln is jerking, frothing at the mouth, eyes rolling back in his head. The healer uncaps the vial and holds it carefully over the other man's mouth. He says something in the Grounder language, his voice soft.

Bellamy can see the suspicion rising in Clarke's face; the words must mean something to her, because she goes tense.

“Wait,” she snaps, and she reaches out at the last second, catching a droplet of whatever was in the vial.

The healer snarls and wrenches out his belt knife, and Bellamy's got his gun up and trained on the guy's tattooed face. “Back off,” he orders. “Right now.”

Clarke murmurs the words the healer said in the Grounder language, eyes darting back and forth. Then she looks Bellamy straight in the eye. “It's what they say before death.” She turns to Octavia, who's looking more scared and confused by the second. “He's _not_ trying to heal him.” Clarke looks the Grounder full in the face. “He's trying to kill him.”

Octavia looks up. “Nyko? Is it true?”

The Grounder seems truly regretful. “Yes. Death is the only way.” He moves to pour another drop.

Clarke pauses, deep in thought. “Hold on. There could be a way to bring him back.”

The healer shakes his head. “None that I've ever seen.”

They all turn at the sound of someone on the ladder, and Finn pokes his head through. “We have to go,” he says as he climbs through the hatch. “The camp's leaving.”

The healer chokes out a furious word in the Grounder language and slams him into the wall before anyone can react, his hands at Finn's throat, squeezing.

They're all yelling, trying to pry the Grounder away, but he's snarling into Finn's face as he grips tighter and tighter. “You slaughtered my people. Elders. Children. Innocents.”

“Nyko, you're killing him!” Octavia shouts.

The healer, Nyko, responds in a growl. “Blood must have blood! Get out of the way!”

Bellamy is going to shoot him, is going to end this, but Octavia won't let him. “Bellamy, you're not shooting him!” He raises the gun anyways. “No!”

Neither of them has seen Clarke grab the baton from the floor, but they see her hit Nyko with it, and both Nyko and Finn collapse with a cry.

Bellamy pants, lowering the gun, looking to Clarke, but Octavia's already kneeling by Lincoln.

“Lincoln,” she pleads. She turns to Clarke. “He's not breathing.”

Bellamy swallows hard. He's been running on the assumption that Clarke can cure him, that the man they knew before can be brought back. If he's dead, there's no possibility. And Bellamy doesn't know if Octavia can take this.

Clarke leans over him, checking something. “His heart's stopped.” Her eyes flash to Octavia. “Move.”

She laces her fingers together and places them over his ribcage, beginning compressions. Bellamy's only ever seen this done on a training dummy, but Clarke's movements are sure and precise. A moment later, Lincoln's gasping, his eyes opening,

It isn't until Bellamy breaths out that he realizes he was holding his breath. He should have known that Clarke would know what to do, that this would be almost routine for her after her time in the Ark's infirmary and after all the bullshit she's had to deal with from the Hundred. A group of rowdy teenage criminals was maybe not the Ark's safest bet for beginning their relocation to Earth.

Nyko has hauled himself into a sitting position, and has watched with wide eyes. “He was dead.” His gaze goes to Clarke's face. “How did you do that?”

Clarke looks at him, sitting back onto her haunches. “You've tried bringing Reapers back before? And they died like this?”

Nyko nods, and Clarke blinks.

Bellamy's had just about enough of this for one day. “What is it?” he asks finally.

Clarke's face is full of hope, for the first time in what seems like forever. “I know how to stop the attack.”

\-----

Bellamy's not angry, per-se – or at least, no angrier than usual – he just doesn't like the looks Clarke is giving Finn. The looks that say _It's okay, we'll make it through this. We can do this together._

He knows those looks, because she's usually giving them to him.

He knows she and Finn have finally had their talk, because suddenly Finn isn't avoiding her, and she's not shying away from his presence. Bellamy can't believe she'd forgive him this easily, but then he realizes who he's dealing with. Clarke could forgive anyone almost anything, as long as they were sorry about it afterwards.

And now Finn does seem genuinely sorry, as though he's been slowly realizing what he's done. He's been carried this far by his anger, his need for revenge, but now he's struggling to backpedal, trying to repay all the hurt he's caused.

Bellamy knows what that's like. He remembers his first week as leader, the deaths, the fights. But he also knows that it takes a hell of a lot of work to rebuild, and he isn't sure Finn can do what he needs to do.

And when Clarke and Finn disappear out the dropship door together, Bellamy crosses his fingers, a superstition that his mom taught him as a kid.

 _Cross your fingers for luck,_ she'd told him, patting his cheek.

He stares grimly out into the woods, waiting for help that he prays will actually arrive.

_Right now we need all the luck we can get, Mom._

\-----

When the hatch clanks open, and Abby Griffin pulls herself through, Bellamy breaths a heavy sigh of relief. The doctor gets to work immediately, ordering them to tie off Lincoln's arm.

“Tight as you can,” she says, picking a bottle and a syringe out of the kit. She notices Octavia watching her curiously. “Thanks to the supplies your brother found, Lincoln might have a chance.”

Octavia sees the needle and tries not to balk. “What's that?”

“This will bring down his fever.” The doctor brings the needle to his arm, but he twists away, groaning.

She looks up, face serious. “Hold him down!” They all scramble to keep Lincoln still, and the doctor jabs the needle down, pressing until the syringe is empty.

For a moment they lean back, but Octavia's immediately panicking again. “What's happening? Why isn't it working?”

The doctor leans over him, much as her daughter had only hours ago. “His heart stopped.” She begins the same kind of compressions Clarke used earlier, and Bellamy can see that she was the one who taught her daughter. She looks around and spots Nyko. “You're their healer?”

He nods cautiously.

The doctor gestures him closer. “Tilt his head back. Pull his chin down to open his airway.” The Grounder complies.

“Come on,” the doctor whispers fiercely between thrusts. “Come on.”

But this time, Lincoln's eyes don't open.

She keeps pushing, but seems to realize that it's not working

“You're stopping,” Octavia says, confused. “What's wrong?”

The doctor looks at her. “I'm sorry. He's gone.”

Bellamy hates to see his sister like this, falling apart at the seams. “No. It's not possible,” she sobs, pressing ineffectually against Lincoln's unmoving chest. “You're wrong!”

“Octavia,” Bellamy says, trying to pull her away, but she rips away from him, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Come back,” she gasps, weeping. “Lincoln.”

Bellamy wishes there was something he could do, but he knows there's nothing. Nothing can undo a hurt like this.

Then Clarke climbs up the ladder with the Commander and her entourage in tow, and Bellamy knows they are all superiorly fucked.

The newcomers need a moment to take in the scene, but once they do, everyone in the room freezes.

Bellamy knows he should reach for a weapon, but he doesn't know where one is. He's been so busy dealing with Lincoln and Abby Griffin's hectic orders that he's left himself largely unguarded. He has knives in his boots and at his belt, but he can't reach them from where he's sitting. He catches Clarke's eye, and her gaze flits to just behind him, and he remembers putting his rifle there. His hand inches back, towards the gun's fitted grip.

No one moves until the Commander gives one of her subordinates a nod, then suddenly there's a flurry of activity. Bellamy has his gun up and aimed at the Commander in half a second, his finger hovering over the trigger. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Octavia has her sword in hand, the healer has a knife out, and even the doctor is carrying the activated stun baton. Only Clarke is unarmed, her hands up.

One of the Grounders, a hard-faced woman with heavy facial scars, says something threatening in the Grounder language and takes a step towards Clarke. Bellamy's hands tighten on the gun, but he doesn't shoot.

“Please,” Clarke begs, hands open and placating, “You don't have to do this.”

The Commander, a young woman in heavy face paint, looks at her pointedly. “You lied,” she says, and Bellamy sees the way her forehead mark moves when she's angry. “And you're out of time.”

But before a blow can be struck, the doctor is moving, shoving the stun baton against Lincoln's chest. He jolts and his body twitches, but he doesn't move.

Clarke stares at her mother. “Hit him again,” she says, and Bellamy would think this was incredibly dangerous, except that the Grounders are too surprised to even move.

When the baton touches Lincoln this time, he convulses, dragging in a ragged breath and opening his eyes. Everyone's taken aback, even Clarke and her mother, and Bellamy hopes they knew it would work.

“Oh, Lincoln,” Octavia says, and she's crying again.

Lincoln's eyes seem to focus on her for the first time since they found him underground. His voice is barely a whisper. “Octavia,” he says, and that's all Bellamy needs to hear to know it's going to be alright.

He looks at Clarke and gives her something like a smile, because she did it, she saved them, and her mother used a weapon to bring someone back from the fucking dead. His sister's mourning is over before it's begun, and she won't have to bury someone else she loves. He can't ever say how grateful he is for that, because Octavia's had too much sadness in her life already.

After a moment, Clarke smiles back, and her eyes are bright the way they were when they still had the Hundred, and the relief in her shoulders is visible.


	5. Chapter 5

He trades looks with Clarke the whole way back to Camp Jaha, alternating between vague smiles and outright grins. He wants to hold her hand and wipe some of the dirt off of her face, but he'll settle for them all not being murdered by Grounders today.

Octavia flashes a questioning look at him, but he shakes his head, too tired to explain. How could he, anyways? How could he explain that he kissed Clarke Griffin and she kissed him back? How could he explain that it was a one time thing, that now they were just partners, just leaders? He can't explain it without lying to Octavia, and he's been trying not to do that. Too much of his life has been spent telling lies to protect secrets, and it's never led anywhere good. He has a very short list of people he really trusts – he can count them on one hand, in fact, and that's a little sad – and he's been trying to be as honest with them as possible. He doesn't want to lose them over lies.

But when he looks at Clarke, he sees it. They're going to get their friends out of that godforsaken mountain, and none of them are gonna be locked up ever again.

\-----

Watching the Grounders snuff out their war torches and withdraw makes Bellamy weak-kneed with relief. A war, averted. Hundreds of people, safe again. Well, about as safe as you could ever really be on Earth.

He waits until after dinner, after the hopeful chatter of the camp has faded into the low murmur of sleep. He knows that Clarke won't be sleeping. Not after everything that's happened today.

He finds her sitting on the ground behind a torn panel of the Ark, sheltered from the wind and the prying eyes of the guards. She's facing the dark hills and trees, a mug of hot soup in her hands, and she's got her eyes closed. She almost doesn't notice when he walks up.

“Hey, Princess,” he says softly, and she cracks open an eye. He looks pointedly at the spot next to her, and she shrugs. He sits and crosses his aching legs with a groan.

“You shouldn't be out here all alone,” he says, and she looks at him. “You know, you'll need backup in case the Grounders want to come kiss your feet some more.”

She rolls her eyes and elbows him in the shoulder, and he grins. He leans back onto the metal panel, wincing a little at its cold against his bruises.

“You should really go see my mom,” Clarke says, and he looks up into her intent blue gaze. “At the very least, she'll tape your ribs. You definitely fractured at least one,” she adds, and he doesn't doubt her.

He sighs. “I think I've had enough of doctors for one day.” He catches her raised eyebrows and grins wolfishly. “No offense.”

She huffs, but leaves it alone. She picks at a loose thread on her jacket, and he wants to tell her to stop, because if she unravels it, he doesn't have the tools here to put it back together. He should make a new sewing kit; now that the Ark is down, he's sure there's someone in camp who knows how to make a decent needle. If not, he can always find some animal bone and try to make some himself, the way he'd read about them doing it in the old days. He's not great with carving, as he'd found out back in camp when he nearly gashed his finger open, but he's tired of not being able to fix the things that he should be able to fix.

She shifts next to him, her shoulder pressing against his. “I'm glad you're okay,” she whispers.

He glances down at her hands; she's twisting her watch back and forth, thumb rubbing the smooth clock face. She must have done that every day in solitary, every day wondering if she was going to follow her father into the unbreachable darkness of space.

“When he grabbed you,” he says, just as quietly, “I thought he was going to kill you.”

Bellamy has no reservations about the fact that Lincoln could kill all of them with his bare hands, Reaper or not. Remembering that moment of struggle – Lincoln's clumsy but powerful fingers seeking purchase in her hair and over her head, trying to find the right angle to snap her neck – still makes Bellamy want to throw up.

One of Clarke's hands, still warm from where it's been wrapped around her soup, creeps over his. “Yeah, but he didn't.”

He looks over at her, opening his mouth to say something like _Yeah, but he could have,_ but Clarke's leaning in, and before he knows what's happening, her lips are meeting his, her breath warm against his cheeks and nose. He closes his eyes, feeling her hair brushing his face, just hoping that this one won't end. He hopes the sun won't rise, hopes the meeting with the Grounder leader never comes.

He's kissed a lot of people, but kissing Clarke's like that first moment when they opened the dropship door, the flood of oxygen and new sensations washing over them. She's pressed up close, hands tangled in the front of his jacket, and he's curled around her, one tentative hand cupping the back of her neck. He doesn't want to push too hard, not wanting to scare her away, but that's okay, because she's aggressive enough for the both of them. He groans a little when she opens her mouth into the kiss, but responds in kind, his skin on fire where she's touching him. He forgets where they are, forgets that they've got other responsibilities, forgets for a moment that he has a long list of reasons not to do this.

He's thought about kissing Clarke every day for what seems like forever, but he didn't think it could be like this.

His jaw pops a little as he shifts, feeling her hands shift against his chest. She's soft and warm and sweeter than she has any right to be, and he wants to kiss that sweetness back into her.

He leans back dizzily after another minute, needing desperately to breathe. She does the same, letting her head thunk against the panel. He gives a breathless laugh, and she smiles up at him, and maybe this time it'll be okay.

“I thought you didn't want to,” he murmurs, and her eyes snap to his.

“You thought  _I_ didn't want to?” she asks a little too loudly, and her voice cracks. She stares at him. “In the woods- I thought you were- I don't know, just trying to make me feel better?”

It's his turn to stare, still breathing hard. “I figured you just wanted a distraction. You know, from Fi- from everything that was going on.”

He knows his eyes are wide, and he can feel his heart hammering his chest, but he can't seem to move or care, because Clarke's looking at him.

Slowly, so slowly that he's afraid he's imagining it, she leans up and kisses him, her eyelashes brushing his cheeks. Her hair's gotten longer in the month and a half or so they've been on the ground, and he runs careful fingers through it.

“Apparently we're both idiots,” she says when she pulls away, voice husky. Her lips are kiss-bruised and her cheeks are flushed, and Bellamy's never seen her so pretty.

He laughs and ducks his head down, trying to hide the way he's smiling, but she pulls his chin up with one hand and kisses him again, and he kisses her back.

\-----

Bellamy dreams that night, and for once it's not screaming and dark woods and blood.

He's sitting on his bunk up on the Ark, talking to his mom as she mends something. Her fingertips are nimble, but he knows they're rough from a lifetime of work. He's saying something to her, and it makes her laugh, makes the corners of her eyes crinkle.

 _You've got a hell of a head on your shoulders, bumblebee,_ she says, mouth quirked in a smile that's just like his own. _You're gonna be just fine._

Her hand strokes his unruly hair back from his face, and he grins, looking over at his sleeping sister. She's gotten so big lately, and so gangly, just like he was at her age.

He pulls the blanket up over her shoulder and zips up his uniform, waving to his mom as he leaves.

\-----

Despite his hopes to the contrary, morning comes eventually, and he rolls sleepily out of bed. Octavia's not in her cot, but he knows she's probably in the infirmary with Lincoln, and that's okay. He pulls on his clothes and walks to the latrines, wetting his hand with water from the pump and running his fingers through his hair, trying to flatten out some of his bedhead.

He rubs a hand over his face and yawns, looking around the central open area for Clarke. When he sees her, sitting alone at one of the tables, she smiles. Her eyes flicker to his head, and he knows he probably has some pretty serious cowlicks.

“You look like a rooster,” is the first thing she says to him, and he tries not to flush. It's amazing how much more embarrassed he is around her now. He'd thought it was weird before, when they'd just kissed that once, but now he feels as nervous as a kid.

Then she reaches up with careful fingers and combs his hair into what he hopes is a less messy style. His eyes slide shut a little when her nails hit his scalp, but slam back open at someone's cough.

He jerks away, and oh _shit_ , it's fucking Finn. He looks a little less haggard than he had yesterday, a full night's sleep having done him some good. But the look on his face is confused and enough like an objection that Clarke's hand drops to her waist.

“Morning,” he says, looking between them, and all Bellamy can do is nod.

How do you tell someone that you spent an hour making out with the girl they loved enough to murder half a village for?

He clears his throat, because he has no fucking clue how to answer that question, and it's too early in the morning to even try. He and Clarke haven't even talked about this, haven't talked about telling people, and he doesn't want to say anything if she doesn't. He glances at her and sees a similar expression on her face, and she nods imperceptibly.

God, he's so glad Clarke gets him.

He hears a clicking sound behind him, and turns; it's Raven, her leg brace working smoothly as she strides across the mostly empty field. Her engineer friend, the tall guy – Wick, Bellamy remembers – is just behind her, looking like he's still asleep on his feet.

Bellamy nods to her and she does the same. Then she turns to Clarke. He doesn't know when those two became so close, but Raven carefully pulls Clarke into a hug, murmuring something in her ear. Clark laughs and presses a fond hand against Raven's shoulder blades. Finn's looking at them, a little bewildered, but that seems to be his default setting these days, and he keeps his mouth shut. Even Wick looks a little surprised, but that might just be how he normally looks when he's dead tired.

Bellamy kind of wants to know the story there, but this isn't really the time. The sun's rising, and Clarke's supposed to be leaving for the meeting any minute now. Also, Bellamy's 90% sure that everyone standing here has made out with someone else here, and he's never felt more awkward in his life.

Thankfully, they're saved from more painful silence by the arrival of Clarke's mom, who looks just as tired as Bellamy feels. At her heels are the two leaders of the guard, who wear the same tough but professional expressions they've had since the Ark came down.

“Okay, sweetie,” Abby says, turning to Clarke. “The Grounders have sent a guide for you. She's waiting at the north gate.” She leans forward and kisses Clarke on the forehead and cheek, gripping her shoulder for a moment. “I've got a list of terms here – things you can offer as part of the bargain, skills our people can offer and supplies we can spare. Look it over on the way.” It's obvious from her voice how desperately she wants this truce to hold.

Clarke nods, giving her mom a brief smile, and then steps away, back towards her friends.

She looks to Raven first, and they trade matching grins. Somewhere along the way, they've figured things out. She nods to Wick, who gives her a half-wave.

Bellamy doesn't know why he's so anxious when she looks at Finn, because all she does is put her hand on his shoulder and smile a little, expression sad as she says something to him quietly. Finn doesn't even seem to notice the contact, and that's strange, because two days ago he would have been jumping at the chance for Clarke to touch him.

And then Clarke's turning to him, and he swears his face is on fire, because she's looking at him like she looked at him last night. She leans up and gives him a tight hug, and he feels her mouth close to his ear. “Take care of them, Bellamy,” she murmurs, breath a ghost against his skin, and pulls away. He's staring, he knows he's staring, and everyone else is looking at them like they've gone crazy, but Clarke's smiling at him, so he just nods.

Then she walks toward the north gate, towards the Grounder standing just next to the sign. It's all Bellamy can do not to follow her, but he knows the terms of this meeting, knows she needs to do this alone. And Octavia's here, and Lincoln, and Clarke's plan for peace is their best chance at rescuing their friends.

“Bellamy,” a voice says, and he looks away from Clarke. Finn's got a face like thunder, and his arms are tense and crossed. “What's with you and Clarke?”

Bellamy wishes the Earth would just swallow him whole, because he has no fucking clue what to say to this jackass. Clarke's not here right now, but she'll be back, and she's expecting him to not fuck everything up while she's gone. So he meets Finn's gaze squarely. “Don't know what you're talking about, Spacewalker.”

The use of his old nickname seems to stun him for a moment, and his face flickers between disgruntled and baffled. Bellamy takes the time to step past him, towards the mess hall. He'll grab some breakfast for himself and Octavia, and maybe some kind of tea for Lincoln, since Clarke said he'll need lots of fluids.

\-----

Clarke returns later that day with a grim face, and Bellamy fears the worst. Will they take Lincoln? Will they execute him for his crimes, both as a man and a Reaper? Octavia will follow him to the ends of the Earth, and there's nothing Bellamy can do to stop her.

Clarke's eyes are hard as she speaks. “They want Finn.”

He looks away, because there's a tiny part of him that wants to give Finn to the Grounders. There's a tiny part of him that still wants the kind of ruthless justice he'd advocated in his first week on the ground. But he isn't that person anymore. They don't execute people, or hand them over to be executed. They're better than that. They have to be, if they want to survive here.

“It'll be okay,” he tells her, pulling her close for a quick hug. “We'll figure something out.” He doesn't really believe what he's saying, but he needs to say it. He needs to know that the possibility exists.

Then Clarke pulls away and gives him a watery smile, and goes to tell her mother and what's left of the Ark leadership.

\-----

She comes to find him afterwards. He and one of the guard are helping an Ark family move some scrap metal so they can set up their tents more comfortably. He's stripped his jacket and outer shirt, and he can feel the sweat dripping down his back and over his shoulders. He's so glad this camp has easy access to water, because he's looking forward to rinsing off the grime from the last few weeks. It's been disgustingly hot and humid, though he knows that will change by the time winter arrives.

When he finishes, the guard he's been working with claps him on the shoulder with a word of thanks. He just nods in return, pulling his shirt back on.

He spots her blonde hair as she leans against a fence. She's looking at him almost casually, but he can see how red her cheeks are from twenty feet away. She catches his eye and raises an eyebrow, glancing to her right, towards a shaded section of the Ark. He gives her his best _You got it, Princess,_ smirk.

He rolls his shoulders as he walks, wincing at the pull on his ribs. Maybe he really should go talk to Clarke's mom. Or maybe just Clarke. The thought of her hands on his ribs, even if they were applying medical tape, is kind of nice.

Then he turns the corner he watched Clarke disappear around, and he's suddenly pushed up against the wall, Clarke's body pressed against his.

“I don't have a lot of time,” she says between kisses, but that's okay with him, because holy hell can Clarke make five minutes feel like an hour. He lets his hands settle at her hips, feeling the softness that slopes down to her stomach and the sensitive bruises on her back. She groans a little into his mouth, and that sends his mind reeling down a path that he probably shouldn't be thinking about in public. He lets her keep him pinned against the wall for another minute, but then he turns them, angling her up as she hooks her thighs around his hips. He likes kissing her like this, with her blue, blue eyes looking down at him from under blonde lashes. She winds her arms around his neck, and he presses her against the wall, taking a moment to push her hair away from her face and kiss her more deeply. She sighs into him, and he suddenly wishes they had more time, because he wants to make her feel _good_.

But they don't have more time, and soon enough, they're disentangling themselves, which proves to be difficult, because at some point their hands have found their way under each other's clothes. He'd been so awfully right before, about how good her hands would feel on him, but there's no time to think about that. He carefully moves her bra straps back up onto her shoulders from where they've slipped, and she straightens his jacket collar to cover the hickey she's just finished giving him.

Despite her efforts, he's sure he looks like he just got caught in a windstorm, but he can't bring himself to care.

She leans up and plants a soft kiss on his lips. “See you later?” she murmurs, a question in her eyes, and he nods quickly. He swallows, trying to make his heart stop racing, but he feels like a teenager again, all shaking hands and excitement. This is Clarke, he reminds himself. It's Clarke. He'd kissed her, and she'd kissed him back, and she wanted to kiss him again. This is actually happening.

He steps back, letting her brush off her clothes and walk back towards the main entrance to the Ark, and he catches her grin. _Your hair_ , she mouths, pointing, and he puts a dazed hand up, realizing that all his hard work to fix his bedhead has been ruined by sweat and her fingers.

\-----

He's still dripping water from the pump when he goes to see Octavia. She's lying on her side next to Lincoln, who's already looking so much better than he had even this morning. The Grounder is sitting up, sipping from a flask of stew and eating some kind of meat on a skewer. He starts when Bellamy walks in, moving his arm from where it rests around Octavia's shoulders, but Bellamy presses a finger to his lips. He doesn't want to wake her. She hasn't really slept in nearly a week, and he knows she's been running herself ragged. He just nods to Lincoln, who slowly relaxes, then decides to go see Raven about their plan for Mount Weather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that's right, another fucking chapter in less than 24 hours, someone save me from this post-apocalyptic delinquent romance hell.
> 
> Probably not gonna be another chapter until next week, when the new episode comes out, because I'm kind of trying to keep the story in line with the canon for now.  
> But I might write something else in the mean time. Probably with less angst and more kissing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for season 2, episode 8, Spacewalker.

They won't give Spacewalker up. They won't give him up, and neither will Bellamy, because Clarke loves him, and Bellamy will do just about anything to protect the things that Clarke loves. She doesn't have many of them left.

\-----

Clarke is hurt, her head bleeding and her eyes closed, and Bellamy wants to scream, but he needs to make sure Clarke's all right. He cradles her head in his hands, trying not to let her head fall back, and when Spacewalker puts her down, he smooths her hair out of her face with shaking fingers.

It shouldn't hurt so much just to look at someone's face, but he feels like someone gave him a sucker punch to the gut.

She murmurs and moves under his touch, and he wants to cry with relief.

\-----

He looks to her first. She's already looking at him, and he sees her plan easily in her face. It's a good thing no one else can read her the way he can, because they'd know exactly what was about to happen.

He turns, stepping out of the crowd, ready to follow her. Where she leads, he'll follow.

But this time he can't follow. So he walks her to the gate, and watches her take the winding path up to the Grounders' war camp, and then he and Raven stand back. There's nothing more they can do for now.

She talks to the leader briefly, and then she's walking towards Finn, and for a brief moment hope flares in Bellamy's chest. _She did it,_ he thinks dizzily. _She talked them out of it._

That hope dies when he sees Clarke lean in and kiss Spacewalker on the lips. Clarke wouldn't do that unless there was no more time, unless there wouldn't be a tomorrow for them to look forward to. Bellamy's not even jealous, because he knows what she's going to do, because he's seen it before.

And it's all confirmed when she draws back, bloody knife in hand. Finn's head is lolling against his chest, and the Grounders are shouting, and all that Bellamy can see is a girl kneeling in the forest, humming, as she takes away the pain.

Then Raven realizes what's happened, and she begins to sob and shriek, and Bellamy pulls her close, catching her as her knees buckle. She keens her grief against his chest, but her eyes don't leave Clarke's tiny form, and he knows the betrayal she must be feeling. He just hugs her tightly, like he had for Octavia when their mother was floated, and stares out at the blonde figure in a sea of Grounders.

It's easy to see why the Grounders treat Clarke more like a leader than they treat her mother. Abby Griffin was strong, but Clarke was different. Clarke knew the choices that had to be made. Clarke knew what happened when you left things to chance.

Clarke had taken the knife, and Bellamy had taken the gun, and they couldn't put them down anymore, because somewhere along the line they'd become their weapons.

He blinks back tears, dimly aware of the uproar around him and the girl in his arms, and stares out at Clarke as she makes her way back towards camp.

\-----

Bellamy doesn't have to go find her, because she's sitting on the edge of his bed. It's past midnight, but he's been out dealing with a semi-hysterical Abby and Raven, who hadn't stopped crying until Wick picked her up and forced her to eat something. It had turned out she couldn't chew and cry at the same time.

Clarke's staring down at her hands, and he lets the door slide shut behind him with a click. She doesn't look up. There's blood on her shirt and her hands, and he doesn't know which is hers and which is Spacewalker's.

He walks to a pile of clothes by the wall and pulls out a shirt. “Here,” he says, holding it out to her, and she finally raises her eyes. They're red and swollen, and he can still see tear-tracks in the dirt on her cheeks. She gingerly takes the clean shirt and gets to her feet. Slowly, she pulls her old one over her head, and he doesn't look away as she pulls the new one on. It's a little big on her in the shoulders, but it fits across her waist and chest, and that's the important part. If he can find some thread, he can fix the fit to something better, but that's a project for later.

He sits down beside her, unlacing his boots and taking them off. She hasn't said anything, but he knows what she wants to say. Instead of talking, he just leans over and beckons with his hands.

Mutely, she crawls into his arms and just presses her face into his neck, breathing deeply. “I'm sorry,” she says wetly, and her fingers come up to grip at his back. “I'm so sorry.”

He holds her while she cries, while she lets herself think about what she's down, occasionally leaning down to kiss her forehead and her cheeks and her nose. He realizes that he doesn't care what she's done. She's Clarke, and that means she's next to him. She's just saved hundreds of people, for the second time in as many days, and one of those people had been Spacewalker. And Raven too, even if she didn't know it yet.

Someday he was going to tell Clarke all the things he really thought about her, but he got the feeling she already knew most of it. She saw the same things he did, even if she saw them in a different way. Her tight-knuckled grip on his hands said as much.

He'd watched her take the knife, and she'd watched him take the gun, and after everything, she'd kissed him back, and somehow that made it okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter's short, but the end of episode eight pretty much fucked over the plans I had for it.  
> Hope you all enjoyed it regardless. Look for more Bellarke stuff soon!


End file.
